s/o 


t 


VERSES  FROM  LIFE 


' 
TAKEN   FROM  LIFE 


VERSES 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE  CO. 

M  DCCC  XCVIII 


FOURTH  EDITION 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BY  MITCHELL  &  MILLER 


883831 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A  Debutante's  Bouquets  .  M.  D.  Hatch  ....  I 

A  Cenotaph P.  Dana  .....  3 

A  Mystery Metcalfe 5 

Valentine  to  a  Flirt  .  .  Felix  Carmen  ....  6 
When  My  Cousin  Comes  to 

Town W.  P.  Bourke  ...  8 

A  Final  Day  Dialogue  ]V.  J.  Lampion  ...  10 

My  Lady  of  the  Links 12 

A  Terrible  Example  .  .  Lay  ton  Brewer  ...  13 

All  on  One  Side  ....  Harry  Romaine  ...  14 

The  Fin-de-Siecle  Angel 16 

A  Lawyer's  Daughter  .  .  /.  H.  Thacher  ...  18 
The  Books  I  Ought  to 

Read Abbie  Farwell  Brown  .  19 

Their  Turn K.  H.  A.  .  .  .  .  .  20 

The  Sloth  Ruth  Kimb  all- Gar  diner  21 

The  Secret  Combination  .  Ellis  Parker  Butler  .  .22 

A  Boston  Lullaby 23 

Moonshine IV.  S.  Moody,  Jr.  .  .  24 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Post-Nuptial  Reverie      .     Roy  Farrell  Greene   .     .  26 

De  Trop L  W. 28 

Advice L.  L.  H 29 

At  the  Opera      ....£.  De  Lancey  Pierson     .  30 

Rejected 31 

Justice Jessie  M.  Wood    ...  32 

Vanity  Fair 35 

Could  it  Be  ? Harry  Romaine    ...  36 

To  Narcissa   .     .     .     .     .     E.  P.  Train     ....  39 

At  Last Tom  Masson    ....  40 

"For  Sale" Pitts  Duffi eld  .     ...  42 

The  Chase  of  the  Laurel 

Wreath Jessie  M.  Wood    ...  44 

To     Phyllis     Returned     to 

Town MacGregor  Jenkins  .     .  45 

Lent George  Hyde    ....  47 

Bargains  in  Hearts    .     .     .     Maud  Hosford      ...  49 

The  Golf  Fiend   .     .     .     .     R.  F.  B 51 

The  Dirge  of  the  House- 
holder      Richard  Stillman  Powell  52 

The  Full  Suite     ....     Metcalfe 53 

Easter  Buds Wood  Levette  Wilson    .  55 

Marigold  Lane     .     .     .     .     M.  E.  W 57 

A  Safe  Attachment  ...     5.  St.  G.  Lawrence    .     .  59 

Our  Hero Harry  Romaine    ...  60 

Food  of  Love      ....     Harry  Romaine    .     .     .  61 

Two  Kisses    ...          .     Richard  Stillman  Powell  62 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An  Acrostic  Plaint    .../?.  5.  P 64 

To  a  Modern  Girl     .     .     .     Archibald  Douglas    .     .  65 
Love    Tapped    upon    My 

Lattice    .     .     .     .     .     A.  L.  M.  Hawes   ...  66 

In  Mamma's  Day     .     .     .     Curley    . 67 

To  St.  Valentine       .     .     .     Madeleine  Reese    ...  68 

Bagged  the  Wrong  Bird    .    John  P.  Lyons  ....  69 

Miss  Jones Harry  Romaine    ...71 

Ballade  of  Forgotten  Loves    Arthur  Grissom   ...  72 

Debt  in  two  Costumes       .     Wood  Levette  Wilson    .  74 

Her  $  Shoes 75 

A  Brief  Description  .     .     .     Harry  Romaine    ...  76 

Conjugal  Lament     .     .     .     Samuel  U.  Pond  ...  77 

A  Christmas  Memory    .     .    James  Whitcomb  Riley   .  79 

If  She  Knew D.  D.  P 83 

To  —    - Denison  Eldridge       .     .  84 

Her  Wish E.  H.  Graham  Dewey     .  87 

Lay  of  the  Grateful  Patient     F.  D 88 

A  Romance  of  To-day 89 

Finnigin  to  Flannagan  .     .     S.  W.  Gillilan     ...  90 
The  Fad  Obsolete     .     .     .     Maude  Andrews  ...  92 
To  a  Would-Be  New  Wo- 
man   Metcalfe 93 

A  Critic Harry  Romaine    ...  94 

Priscilla Samuel  Minturn  Peck    .  95 

The  Ride  from   Ghent  to 

Aix Irwin  Beaumont.   .         .  96 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Fall  of  Corydon     .     .     IV.  B.  A 98 

Traced Lay  ton  Brewer      .     .     .100 

An  Arcadian  Flirtation 101 

Grace's  Choice  .  .  .  .  Charles  Battell  Loomis  .  102 
When  Nelly  Hangs  Her 

Stocking  Up  .  .  .  Earle  H.  Eaton  .  .  .104 
Forty  Years  After  .  .  .  H.  H.  Porter  .  .  .  .106 
Ye  Sleighride  Partie  .  .  Jack  Stevens  .  .  .  .107 

Two  Verses Richard  Stillman  Powell  108 

My  Poems Ida  W or  den  Wheeler     .    109 

Lines   on  an   X-Ray    Por- 
trait     Lawrence  K.  Russel  .     .    1 10 

Affinity 1 1 1 

A  Modern  Psyche  .  .  .  Eli%a  Calvert  Hall  .  .112 
The  Happy  Man  .  .  .  Annie  M.  L.  Hawes  .  .114 
A.  B.  C.  of  Literature  .  .  Carolyn  Wells  .  .  .  \\6 
When  Mabel  Smiles  .  .  Samuel  Minium  Peck  .  121 
In  the  Church  ....  Roy  FarreH  Greene  .  .  1 23 

At  the  Opera 1 24 

Her  Sofa M.  E.  IV 126 

The  Triumph  of  Cupid     .     Geraldine  Mcyrick     .     .    1 29 

The  Wrath  of  Cupid 130 

Love's  Sacrifice 132 

The  Blind  Beggar     .     .     .     M.  E.  M.  Davis   .     .     .133 

Cupid's  Easter  Composition I  35 

Love  on  the  Links   .     .     .     G.  M.  Winter      .     .     .136 

A  Usurper 137 

xii 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

The  Spinning  Wheel  .  .  Felix  Carmen  .  .  .138 
An  Astral  Romance  .  .  Gustav  V.  Drake  .  .140 
The  Fall  of  J.  W.  Beane  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .142 


A  DEBUTANTE'S  BOUQUETS 

WEARY  ?     I  am  as  limp  as  that  white  glove 
I've  taken  off — exquisite,  are  they  not, 
Massed  so  ?     Not  one  for  whom  I  cared  forgot 
To  send  to-day  the  flowers  that  I  love. 

These  gorgeous  tulips  come  from  Uncle  Jim, 
That  bunch  of  velvety  sweet  Jacqueminots 
Was  sent  by  one  of  Mamma's  own  old  beaux  ; 

I  wonder  if  to-day  seemed  strange  to  him. 


Those  radiant  Beauties — Ada  brought  to  me. 

She  is  the  girl  1  read  with  twice  a  week  ; 

We  are  quite  strict  about  it — if  we  speak 
We  pay  a  fine  that  goes  to  charity. 


Claude  sent  the  pinks — you  know  to  me  he  pours 
Out  all  his  woes — a  Southern  boy  at  Yale 
Sent  me  the  Jonquils  ;  how  I  love  that  pale 

Yellow — he  said  these  grew  at  home  out-doors. 

The  pansies  with  the  single  rose  were  sent 
By  that  young  artist  wanting  me  to  sit 
For  Rosalind  ;  I'm  sure  they  mean  a  bit 

Of  weird  symbolic  tonal  sentiment. 

Dear  Daddy  sent  these  fragrant  Bonselines — 

He  hated  so  this  fuss  to  bring  me  out. 
* «  tT»hough$  it«all  ttpnsenee,  and  I  do  not  doubt 
*tlf*is*  wh en  *rfne.°thirtks,  really  what  it  means. 

Sut  when  I  came  down  stairs  to  him  all  dressed 
He  kissed  me — patted  me  upon  the  head — 
u  God  bless  my  little  grown-up  girl/'  he  said, 

And  sent  his  flowers  to  me  with  the  rest. 

I  wore  this  bud — and  held  to  match  my  gown 
The  orchids  Mamma  brought — how  tired  one  gets. 
What  ?     Oh,  a  bunch  of  Russian  violets  ? 

I  think — I  did  not  think  to  bring  them  down. 

M.  D.  Hatch. 


A    CENOTAPH 

GOOD  Elnathan  went  from  Slocum 
Back  in  1839, 
To  become  a  tenens  locum 
In  the  missionary  line. 

And  the  Heathen,  it  is  said 
Dearly  loved  their  missionary  ; 
Grief— or  something — seemed   to   choke  'em 
When  the  worthy  man  was  dead 

Then  the  Populace  of  Slocum, 

Though  they  hadn't  him  to  bury, 
Though  the  outlay  almost  broke  'em — 
Placed  upon  the  hallowed  spot, 
Where  his  blest  remains  were  not, 

In  the  local  cemetery, 
An  expensive  marble  shaft, 
Elegantly  epitaphed, 
Pleasantly  obituary  : 

!<  For  good  Elnathan  shed  a  pious  tear — 

Departed  Saint ! — 
Would  that  his  lost  remains  were  resting  here — 

But,  Ah!     They  ain't! 
In  Afric's  clime  he  hath  a  warm  sarcophagus 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  an  Anthropophagus," 

P.  Dana 

3 


511  UNION  SQ'R.,. 


|'R.,.N.  Y.     J 


A    MYSTERY 

DAINTY  maid,  fair  maid,  your  name  I  fain  would  know, 
For  every  time  I  see  your  face  more  sorrowful  I  grow. 
When  you  were  dropped  upon  the  pave  and  I  came  walk- 
ing by, 
I  took  you  up  and  looked  at  you  with  far  from  eager  eye. 

But  this  soon  changed  to  interest,  and  then  to  something 
more, 

Until,  at  last  I  have  to  own,  a  woman  I  adore 

Whose  voice  I've  never  heard,  whose  hand  I've  never 
pressed, 

To  whom  I've  never  compliment  nor  gallant  speech  ad- 
dressed. 

And  then  I  sought  the  photo  man  and  told  to  him  my  tale, 
But  tears,  entreaties,  gold  galore,  did  not  with  him  avail 
To  wrest  -from  him  the  secret  that  haunts  me  day  and 

night — 
The  name  to  go  with  the  sweet  face  that's  ever  in  my 

sight. 

It  may  be  Doris,  Phyllis,  lanthe,  Mary  Jane, 
But  I'm  strongly  of  opinion  it's  something  like  Elaine  ; 
And  when  it  comes  to  surnames  I'm  ready  to  affirm 
It's  not  a  name  like  Boggs  or  Grimes  to  make  my  fancy 
squirm. 

Rose-like,  by  any  other  name  you'd  still  be  dear  to  me, 

For  with  the  Scottish  poet,  Burns,  I  certainly  agree 

That  guineas  are  not  purer  from  the  guinea  stamp  they 

bear, 
And   I'm   sure  that   you   are   lovely  whatever  name  you 

Wear. 

Metcalfe. 


VALENTINE  TO   A   FLIRT 

YOU  who  capture  hearts  in  plenty, 
Golden-haired  and  gay; 
You  will  get  some  ten  or  twenty 

Valentines  to-day. 
Each  one  with  its  message  tender 
Owning  absolute  surrender 
Of  the  true  heart  of  the  sender  : — 
Such  is  Cupid's  way. 


You  will  find  my  own  confession 

In  among  the  rest. 
It  is  every  man's  impression 

That  you  love  him  best. 
So  like  nine  or  nineteen  others 
Of  my  sentimental  brothers, 
I  am  one  who  vainly  smothers 

Love  within  his  breast. 
6 


But  I  know  you,  little  flirt  you  ! 

Hope  ?     Indeed,  I've  none  ! 
That's  the  very  vine  of  virtue 

Frozen  by  your  fun. 
Every  line  of  love  you'll  parry, 
Of  these  twenty  men  who  tarry, 
Then,  at  last,  go  off  and  marry 

Number  twenty-one  ! 

Felix  Carmen. 


WHEN   MY   COUSIN   COMES 
TO  TOWN 

CHERRY  Valley's  finest  raiment— 
^^     Quaint,  yet  beautiful  to  see — 
Rightly  decks  its  fairest  claimant 
To  sweet  femininity. 

Miss  New  York,  au  fait  in  fashion, 
Smiles  at  Cherry  Valley's  gown — 

Smile  half  envy,  half  compassion — 
When  my  cousin  comes  to  town. 

Miles  on  miles  of  streets  of  shopping  ; 

How  she  revels  in  the  sights  ! 
Every  window  finds  her  stopping 

To  examine  its  delights. 
8 


And  I  join  in  her  inspection, 
For  two  sparkling  eyes  of  brown 

Show  in  the  plate-glass  reflection 
When  my  cousin  comes  to  town. 

If  she  warms  about  the  city 

In  her  healthy,  happy  way, 
Miss  New  York  politely  witty 

Is  about  her  naivete. 

But  to  men,  such  girlish  rapture 

Is  a  far  from  common  noun, 
And  each  day  shows  some  fresh  capture 

When  my  cousin  comes  to  town. 

Goes  the  maid  to  Seidl's,  Sousa's, 
Horse  Show,  Metropolitan — 

Over  each  one  she  enthuses 
As  but  Cherry  Valley  can. 

Is  it  strange  when  breezes  waft  her 
Homeward,  sorrow  weighs  me  down  ? 

I  am  "  broke  "  for  six  weeks  after, 
When  my  cousin  comes  to  town. 

W.  P.  Bourke. 


A   FINAL   DAY   DIALOGUE 


T 


GABRIEL 

*HE  golden  gates  are 

open  now  ; 
And,   glittering  like  a 

gem 
For  your  eternal  wearing, 

stands 
The  New  Jerusalem." 

NEW    YORKER 

"  Before    I   take    a    man- 
sion in 
Your   city   bright 

and  fair, 

'd  like  to  ask  you,  Gabriel,  if 
The  400  will  be  there  ?" 


CHICAGOAN 

"I'd  like  to  ask  before  I  stop 

And  register  with  you, 
Is  it  as  '  live  '  a  town,  old  man, 
As  I'm  accustomed  to  ?" 

BOSTONIAN 

"  I'll  come,  but  let  me  tell  you  now. 

That  always  I'll  expect 
Your  city  to  be  well  supplied 
With  beans  and  intellect." 

PHILADELPHIAN 

"I'm  half  afraid  to  try  your  town 

Until  I've  made  a  test  : 
Will  you  assure  me  it's  a  place 
Of  quiet  and  of  rest?" 


BALTIMOREAN 

"  Dear  Mr.  Gabriel,  let  me  ask, 

Before  I  enter  in, 
Am  I  to  get,  three  times  a  day, 
A  dish  of  terrapin  ?  " 

WASHINGTONIAN 

"  Dear  sir,  I'd  like  to  ask  of  you, 

If  to  your  shady  pools, 
And  pleasant  fields,  I've  got  to  come 
By  civil  service  rules." 

ATLANTAN 

"  Blow,  blow  your  trumpet,  Gabriel,  blow  ; 

I  will  not  heed  the  sound, 
Unless  your  watermelon  crop 
Is  ripe  the  whole  year  round." 

LOUISVILLIAN 

"  Say,  Colonel,  do  I,  if  I  come, 
Get,  in  your  glorious  clime, 
A  horse-race  every  other  day, 
And  whiskey  all  the  time  ?  " 

DENVERIAN 

"  Just  count  me  out,  old  chap,  I've  heard 

Your  streets  were  paved  with  gold. 
If  you  can't  furnish  silver  streets, 
I'll  stay  out  in  the  cold." 

GALVESTONIAN 

"  Ta  ta,  old  fellow.     Not  this  morn, 

The  other  way  I'll  roam. 
N.  J's  n.  g.     The  other  place 
Is  something  more  like  home." 

W.  f.  Lampion. 


MY   LADY   OF   THE   LINKS 

LIKE  Dian,  her  trim  ankles  seen, 
And  small  feet  treading  lightly, 
She  drives  the  ball  from  green  to  green, 

And  grasps  her  lofter  tightly. 
Like  Venus,  her  sweet  lips  and  eyes 

Above  her  wind-tossed  plaidie, 
She  plays — my  fortune  for  her  prize, 
Dan  Cupid  for  her  caddie. 


A   TERRIBLE   EXAMPLE 

TWO  loves  took  lodgings  in  a 
heart 
Whose  owner  wanted  both  to 

stay; 

But  constant  quarrelings  and  tart 
Encounters  many  times  a  day 
Persuaded  one  to  go  away. 

This  love  went  journeying  about; 
With  frequent   change   of  resi- 
dence ; 

His  mind  was  vastly  broadened  out  ; 
He  added  to  his  stock  cf  sense 
In  each  distinct  experience. 

One  day,  upon  a  pointless  roam, 
By  accident  he  chanced  to  spy 

His  earliest  remembered  home, 
And  on  the  spot  resolved  to  try 
These  lodgings  where  he  used  to  lie. 

The  other  love  still,  hermitwise, 

Abode  within,  but  nearly  dead 
From  lack  of  change  and  exercise. 

He  saw  his  rival,  paled  with  dread — 

And,  lo  !  his  broken  spirit  fled. 

Whereat  his  awed  survivor  cried : 
"  I'll  stay  awhile,  but  still  I  must 

Be  sure  this  lesson  is  applied. 
At  my  demise  they'll  say,  I  trust, 
He  died  from  wear,  but  not  from  rust." 


Layton  Brewer. 


ALL   ON   ONE   SIDE 

SHE  is  like  Nature  :  and  I  love 
Her  ever-changing,  wayward  moods, 
As  I  adore  the  sky  above  ; 

The  far  blue  hills  ;  the  dark,  green  woods  ; 
The  noisy  brook  ;  the  torrent's  roar ; 
The  glamour  of  a  moonlight  night  ; 
The  never-ending  ocean's  shore  ; 

The  fleecy  cloud-heads,  soft  and  white. 

She  is  like  Nature.     Much  she  cares, 

Though  I  should  love  a  thousand  years  ! 
If  I  am  sad  when  sunlight  glares, 

Will  cloudless  skies  weep  scalding  tears  ? 
And  will  my  gladness  dry  the  rain  ? 

Will  Nature  smile  and  join  my  glee  ? 
Will  Nature  love  me  back  again  ? 

I  think  not — and  no  more  will  She  ! 

Harry  Romaine. 


THE   FIN-DE-SIECLE  ANGEL 

HER  harp  is  of  the  newest  make 
The  things  she  likes  to  play 
Make  even  Peter's  sides  to  shake, 
Whene'er  she  flies  his  way. 


Her  wings  are  of  the  latest 

style, 

Her  halo's  quite  the  thing. 
Her  laughing  eyes  an  an- 
swering smile 
From  all  the  choir  bring, 


And,  when  she  flies  the  golden  street, 
She  stirs  the  saints  so  madly 

They  always  haste  across  to  meet 
And  raise  their  halos  gladly. 
17 


A  LAWYER'S  DAUGHTER 

O  me,  I  swear,  you're  a  volume  rare—" 

But  she  said  with  judicial  look, 
f  Your  oath's  not  valid  at  Common  Law 
Until  you've  kissed  the  Book." 

f.  H.  Thacher. 
18 


THE   BOOKS   I   OUGHT  TO    READ 

ON  dusty  shelves  in  serried  rows  they  stand, 
Reproachful  thousands,  quaint  and  grave 
and  great  ; 

My  guilty  conscience  feels  their  mute  command, 
Yet  day  by  day— they  wait. 

More  formidable  grow  their  ranks  each  year, 
Their  very  names  I  cannot  call  to  mind  ; 

A  friend  amid  this  chaos  would,  I  fear, 
Be  very  hard  to  find. 

But  to  a  corner  shelf,  by  most  forgot, 
I  steal,  and  give  reproach  no  further  heed 

'Mid  boon  companions  all — yet  these  are  not 
The  books  I  ought  to  read. 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown. 
19 


THEIR  TURN 


A  MARYLL1S,     Chloris, 
J\     Phyllis, 

Inspirations  of  the  poet, 
Tell  us  now  of  your  affec- 
tions, 

Adoration,  as  you  know 
it. 


Write  for  us  a  clever  sonnet, 
Tender  love  song,  dainty  lyric, 

On  the  virtues  of  your  lovers  : 
You  compose  a  panegyric. 


In  this  time  of  Woman's  Congress, 
Bloomers,  wheels  and  other  crazes, 

You've  no  need  to  wait  till  leap  year 
To  resound  your  lovers'  praises. 

Do  not  hide  your  admiration, 
But  in  graceful  verses  show  it, 

And  we'll  read  with  eager  pleasure 
"  Lines  (by  Chloris)  to  a  Poet." 


K.  H.  A. 


THE  SLOTH 

1SING  that  charming  thing, 
The  sloth — the  wisest  beast 
That  moves  by  leg  or  wing, 
Because  he  moves  the  least. 


He  does  not  rise  to  see 
The  sun  the  day  begin. 

It  can  be  done,  thinks  he, 
Without  advice  from  him. 


He  knows  'tis  deeds  men  do 
That  cause  all  suffering. 

Humanitarian  true, 
He  never  does  a  thing. 

He  simply  eats  and  drinks 
And  cherishes  ideals, 

And  indolently  thinks 
Of  things  he  never  feels. 

He  knows  his  theories 
In  practice  would  not  fit. 

And  so  he  never  tries 
To  put  them  into  it. 


You  may  choose  power  or  fame — 
I  grant  you,  gladly,  both — 

But  when  I'm  born  again 
I  want  to  be  a  sloth. 


Ruth  Kintball-Gardiner. 

21 


THE   SECRET   COMBINATION 


HER  heart  she  locked 
fast  in  her  breast 
Away     from     moles- 
tation ; 
The  lock  was  warranted 

the  best, 

A  patent  combination  ; 
She  knew  no  simple  lock 
and  key 

Would  serve  to  keep 
out  Love  and  me. 

But  Love  a  clever 

cracksman  is 
And    cannot  be 
resisted  ; 


He  likes  such  stubborn  jobs  as  this, 

Complex  and  hard  and  twisted, 
And  though  we  worked  a  many  day 
At  last  we  bore  her  heart  away. 

For  Love  has  learned  full  many  tricks 

In  his  strange  avocation  ; 
He  knew  the  figures  were  but  six 

In  this,  her  combination  ; 
Nor  did  we  for  a  minute  rest 
Until  we  had  unlocked  her  breast. 


First,  then,  we  turned  the  knob  to  "  Sighs," 
Then  back  to  "  Words  Sincerest," 

Then  "  Gazing  Fondly  in  Her  Eyes," 
Then  "  Softly  Murmured  '  Dearest  ; '  " 

Then,  next,  "  A  Warm  Embrace,"  we  tried, 

And  at  "  A  Kiss,"  the  door  flew  wide. 

Ellis  Parker  Butler. 


A   BOSTON   LULLABY 

DOFF  thy  new  spectacles, 
Peregrine,  darling  one  ; 
Minds  are  but  obstacles 

When  work  is  overdone. 
Lullaby,  hushaby,  slumber  thou  festinate, 
Hushaby,  lullaby,  never  procrastinate. 

Lay  down  thy  Ibsen,  dear, 

Browning  and  Emerson  ; 
Sealed  be  thy  cultured  ear 

Save  to  my  benison. 
Lullaby,  hushaby,  cherish  obedience, 
Hushaby,  lullaby,  captivate  somnolence. 

Dream  thou  of  Lohengrin, 

Siegfried,  Briinnhilde  fair; 
Banish,  my  Peregrine, 

Thoughts  of  the  Pilgrims  spare. 
Lullaby,  hushaby,  sleep,  dear,  till  night  is  done, 
Hushaby,  lullaby,  mother's  phenomenon. 


MOONSHINE 

THE  fairest  thing  in  all  the  world 
Is  the  light  of  the  moon  in  the  sea  ; 
For  it  flutters  along  like  a  ribbon  unfurled 
By  a  maiden's  hand  in  another  world, 
And  tossed  down  here  to  me. 


The  rose  is  fair  in  the  rose  tree  green, 
And  the  violet  sweet  in  the  grasi, ; 
But  the  rose  must  die,  like  every  queen, 
And  the  violet  fades  in  her  cloister  green, 
As  the  winds,  lamenting,  pass. 

The  sunset  sky  is  softly  fair 

When  the  first  white  star  appears  ; 
24 


But  the  light  grows  pale  as  the  fireflies  flare, 
And  the  primrose  cloud  forgets  to  be  fair, 
And  the  dewdrops  shine  like  tears. 

And  passing  fair  is  the  slender  maid, 

Who  springs  like  the  lily  tall  ; 
But,  though  as  a  child  she  stands  arrayed 
In  her  sheer,  white  gown,  she's  a  marble  maid, 

Unheeding  the  sculptor's  call. 

So  the  fairest  thing  in  the  whole  wide  world 

Is  the  moon-streak  in  the  sea  ; 
For  it  falls  like  a  fairy's  hair  unfurled, 
And  always,  wherever  we  go  in  the  world, 

There's  one  for  you — for  me. 

W.  S.  Moody,  Jr. 


A   POST-NUPTIAL   REVERIE 

THE  wedding,  last  night,  was  a  royal  affair 
According  to  all  of  the  papers, 
The  perfume  of  flowers  afloat  in  the  air, 

The  mellowing  light  of  the  tapers, 
And  Nellie  leaned  proud  on  the  arm,  so  they  say, 

Of  papa,  clear  up  to  the  altar, 
Repeating  the  vows  in  a  confident  way, 
With  no  inclination  to  falter. 


The  bridesmaids  arrayed  in  their  virginal  white, 
Were  symphony's  sweetest  creations, 

The  music  soared  up  to  the  regions  of  light 
As  though  it  were  Heaven's  oblations 
26 


To  Nellie,  and  yet  a  grim  sense  of  unrest 
The  whole  of  the  evening  enthralled  me  ; 

My  senses  went  whirling,  my  heart  was  distressed, 
The  scene  at  the  altar  appalled  me. 

It  seemed  that  I  lived  through  a  troublesome  dream, 

E'en  Nellie  was  thrilled  with  emotion, 
I  once  caught  her  eye  and  its  sparkle  and  gleam 

Seemed  soft  in  its  sense  of  devotion. 
The  crowd  lingered  late,  all  their  homage  to  pay, 

And  yet  even  longer  I  tarried. 
1  jealously  wanted  to  steal  her  away, 

Since  I  was  the  fellow  she  married. 

Roy  Far r ell  Greene 


DE   TROP 

BETWEEN    the     dreamy 
waltzes — 

In  the  intervening  calm, 
They  sat  on  the  veranda, 

Beneath  a  spreading  palm ; 
•And  he    whispered    love  in 

rapture, 

"  Alone,  at  last,  are  we  !" 
And  she  murmured,    "  Yes, 

it's  lovely, 

But  it's  horrid  when  there's 
three." 


:'  Aha  !"  laughed  little  Cupid, 

As  he  hurled  a  final  dart, 
Then  gathered  up  his  arrows 

And  made  ready  to  depart. 
While  a  shadow  crossed  their  dreaming, 

A  cloud  rose  in  their  sky — 
The  summer  night  grew  colder, 

And  each,  sadly,  wondered  why. 

Nor  guessed  at  all  the  reason  ; 

But  the  little  love  god  knew, 
And  scoffed  at  human  wisdom, 

As  the  fickle  sprite  will  do. 
'  Alas  !  poor  foolish  mortals, 

Perhaps  you've  never  heard 
That  three's  delightful  company 

If  Cupid  is  the  third." 

L.  W. 


I 


ADVICE 

THE  poet,  mussed  my  hair, 


,      Then  turned  me  to  my  muse  in  gingham 
And  said  :  "  My  love,  prythee  repair 
And  hunt  my  fillets  up  and  bring  'em." 

f  he  dear  girl  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought  ; 

And  high  and  low  she  vainly  sought  'em 
Where  they  should  be,  where  they  should  not  • 

Then  thought  at  last  :  "  The  rag-man  bought  'em 

My  tripod  ?  Gone,  too  ;  for  therein 
The  soup  was  cooking  for  our  dinner. 

Set-backs  enough,  I  wot,  to  win, 

From  rhyme  the  maddest  rhyming  sinner. 

But  not  for  me  the  chair  of  ease, 

And  not  for  me  the  lotus  diet  ; 
I  took  my  rhymster  on  my  knees 

While  Thalia  kept  the  baby  quiet. 
*  #  * 

The  rhyme  was  finished,  but,  alack  ! 

Less  something — even  I  detected  ; 
And,  like  the  cat,  it  wandered  back 

From  every  editor,  rejected. 

And  so  conviction  comes  to  me, 

And,  if  "  available,"  I'll  give  it  :— 
The  man  who'd  write  his  poetry 

Would  better  not  attempt  to  live  it. 

L.  L.  H. 
29 


AT  THE    OPERA 

OFT  I  see  her  at  the  opera 
In  her  box — soft  clad  in  white — 
With  her  fair  young  face  bent  forward, 

Feeling  all  a  child's  delight 

In  the  music's  sensuous  measures 

Rising  o'er  that  radiant  throng, 

While  her  silken  fan  is  swaying 

To  the  rhythm  of  the  song. 


30 


And  I  see  men  crowd  about  her, 

Lingering  o'er  her  lightest  words, 
And  her  voice  has  all  the  music 

Of  the  sweetest  forest  birds. 
Blessed  are  they  to  be  the  subjects 

Of  her  tender  tyranny  ; 
Ah;  why  in  that  Circean  circle 

Is  there  not  a  place  for  me  ? 

How  I  envy  all  those  foplings 

Who  can  win  her  sweetest  smile, 
Worship  near  her  now  unchided, 

Be  her  courtiers  for  the  while. 
But,  alas  !     'Tis  out  the  question, 

I  must  bear  my  lot  with  grace, 
For  I  only  am  her  husband, 

And  I've  learned  to  know  my  place  ! 

E.  De  Lancey  Pterson. 


REJECTED 

fell  in  love  with  a  <"%|fpj|^>  trim, 

And  over  his  love  went  loony, 

But  the  ^^p£Jfg£>  declared  that  she  wouldn't  have  him, 

Because  he  was  much  too 


T 


JUSTICE 

HE  saleswoman's  form  was  like  this, 


And  the  customers'  forms  were  like  these, 


And  the  saleswoman  sold,  so  I'm  told, 
Gowns  from  Paris  by  Worth  and  Elise, 
32 


Made  charmingly,  just  as  you  please. 

And  the  saleswoman's  duty  was  this  : 
To  put  on  the  gowns,  and  to  say, 

With  a  sweet,  honeyed  smile,  "  Here  is  style," 
"  'Twill  suit  you  in  every  way." 
(Such  lies  she  would  tell  every  day.) 


So  the  gowns  were  all  rap- 
idly sold, 

And  the  dollars  came  rap- 
idly in, 

And  it  can't  be  denied  that 

she  lied, 

Which  in  business  is  not 
thought  a  sin. 

But  one  day  the  saleswoman 
died! 


And  when  at  Heaven's  gate  she  applied 

St.  Peter  would  not  let  her  in. 
The  Saint,  with  a  sneer,  said,  "  Not  here, 

For  lying's  considered  a  sin, 
Which  to  sanction  we  cannot  begin." 

The  saleswoman  answered,  "Those  lies 
Are  on  the  wrong  list,  sir — and  so 

A  liar,  esteemed  saint,  I  ain't, 

'Tis  the  firm  who  should  go  down  below." 

And  the  Saint  answered  justly  "  That's  so." 

Jessie  M.  Wood. 


I/. 


VANITY    FAIR 

VANITY  FAIR,  Vanity  Fair, 
What  can  we  purchase  in  Vanity  Fair  ? 
Hearts,  perhaps  broken,  but  passing  for  new  ; 
Vows,  false  when  spoken,  but  warranted  true. 
Colors,  they're  faded,  but  fit  still  for  wear  ; 
Nothing  is  wasted  in  Vanity  Fair. 

Vanity  Fair,  Vanity  Fair, 

How  goes  the  trading  in  Vanity  Fair  ? 

Worn,  pale  cheeks  for  red  ones,  and  young  hearts 

for  old  ; 

Fresh  roses,  for  dead  ones  ;  brass  passing  for  gold. 
Some  lose  all  in  the  struggle,  but  none  know  or  care, 
No  room  for  the  failures  in  Vanity  Fair. 

Vanity  Fair,  Vanity  Fair, 

I  pray  you  come  join  us  in  Vanity  Fair. 

Bring  youth  and  bring  gladness,  your  high  aims,  bright 

desires, 

Purchase  old  age  and  sadness,  burnt  out  ashes  of  fires. 
Naught  else  will  be  left  you,  but  why  should  you  care, 
You  have  danced  with  the  gayest  in  Vanity  Fair. 
35 


COULD   IT   BE  ? 

WILL  you  and  I  grow 
like  the  rest 

Of  stupid  married  folks  ? 
Will  love's  sweet  savor  lose 

its  zest  ? 

Is  happiness  a  hoax  ? 
There  is  the  Major  and  his 

wife, 
And    Uncle    and     Aunt 

Kate. 
Could   we   be  like  them  ? 

What  a  life  ! 
Perhaps      we'd      better 
wait. 


Oh,  Will,  could  ever  you  and  I 

Grow  stuffy,  mean  and  old  ? 
And  could  my  voice  grow  shrill  and  high  ] 

And  could  you  swear  and  scold, 
And  throw  out  spiteful  little  things  ? 

Oh,  dear !  it's  not  too  late  ! 
If  we  could  do  such  horrid  things, 

Perhaps  we'd  better  wait. 
36 


It  breaks  my  heart  ;  I  tell  you,  Will, 

Let's  always  be  engaged, 
And  then  we'll  love  each  other  till 

Our  hearts  are  worn  and  aged  ; 
For  married  people  don't  reflect 

Much  credit  on  their  state  ! 
They  show  us  what  we  may  expect, 

Unless — unless  we  wait ! 

Harry  Rotnaine. 


J 


TO  NARCISSA 

I'VE  a  mistress,  passing  fair, 
Loves  me  well — aye;  that  I'll  swear ! 
For  of  all  the  joys  she  knows, 
None  suth  rapture  keen  bestows, 
As  an  hour's  commune  with  me, 
Spent  in  speechless  ecstasy. 

Her  sweet  lips,  too  modest  far 

To  admit  such  folly  are  ; 

But  her  blue  eyes,  grown  more  bold, 

Make  confessions  manifold, 

As  into  mine  they  smile, 

Seeking  homage  to  beguile. 

Do  I  flatter  her  ?— Well,  no  ; 
She  is  fair,  I  tell  her  so. 
For  I'm  framed  in  such  a  wise 
To  reflect  the  truth — -not  lies. 
Yet,  to  compliment  a  lass 
Natural  is  to  French  plate  glass. 

E.  P.  Train. 


AT  LAST 

SHE  let  her  hand  be  taken,   and  with  confidence  un- 
shaken he  tried  his  best  to  waken  in  her  heart  some 
sentiment. 

With  a  wondrous  burst  of  feeling  round  her  waist  his  arm 
was  stealing,  yet  her  face  showed  no  revealing  of  her 
mind's  ingenuous  bent. 

His  voice,  quite  low  and  pleading,  for  himself  was  interced- 
ing, but  the  maiden  paid  no  heeding  to  the  words  that 
he  might  say. 

And  no  lover  persevering  ever  had  so  dumb  a  hearing 
to  his  terms  of  love  endearing  as  she  gave  to  him  that 
day. 

Until  his  chance  he  waited  with  a  guile  premeditated,  and 
with  cheek  unmitigated  up  and  kissed  her.  Then  she 
cried : 

40 


1  There,  you  monster  !  I  just  knew  it  !  I  was  sure,  or 
quite  near  to  it,  if  I  waited  you  would  do  it.  Now  I 
hope  you're  satisfied." 


Tom  MassoH. 


"FOR  SALE" 


(Ballade  of  a  Poet  on  quitting  bis  business.) 


FOR   sale  :    a  poet's 
quills  and  pen, 
A  shabby   muse,   a  laurel 

band, 
A  Pegasus  who'll  trot  again 

If  guided  by  a  skillful  hand. 
For  sale  :  a  muse,  a  glass  of  sand  ; 

Proclaim  it  where  they  most  are  seen 
Who  deal  in  verses  through  the  land. 
For  sale  :  a  case  of  Hippocrene  ! 

It's  just  the  thing  for  rhyming  men, 

It  makes  a  fellow's  brain  expand, 
Transforms  the  trappings  of  his  den 

To  groves  and  hills  where  breezes  fanned 
Anacreon's  brow,  and  Sappho  planned 

Her  splendid  lyrics,  lithe  and  green. 
For  sale  :  a  wreath,  a  rhyming  wand, 

For  sale  :  a  case  of  Hippocrene  ! 
42 


Those  things  at  auction,  all,  at  ten  ; 

Come  early,  or  I  fear  you'll  stand. 
For  sale  :  proclaim  it  loudly  then, 

A  muse,  a  Pegasus,  a  strand 
Of  bays  that's  marked  "  Apollo's  brand." 

Come  early,  if  your  taste  is  keen — 
At  least  one  visit  I  demand. 

For  sale  :  a  case  of  Hippocrene  ! 

ENVOI 
O  muse  !  look  not  so  big  and  grand, 

I  have  a  right  to  sell,  I  ween  ; 
I've  broken  now  with  your  command, 

For  sale  :  a  case  of  Hippocrene  ! 

Pitts  Duffield. 


THE   CHASE   OF  THE   LAUREL    WREATH 


A  Minor  Poet  chased  a  Laurel 
Wreath  ; 
His  hopes  were  high,  his  verses 

light  and  airy. 
He  longed  for  nuts  while  yet  he 

had  his  teeth  ; 

He'd  pens  and  ink  and  Rhym- 
ing Dictionary. 
The  Public   said,  with  careless, 

pitying  jeers, 

He'd  everything  in  life — but  the 
IDEAS ! 


The  Minor  Poet,  having  no  IDEAS, 

In  vain  pursuit  of  Laurels  sighed  and  sorrowed  ; 
Forgetting  quite  that,  strange  as  it  appears, 

IDEAS  can  always  easily  be  borrowed 
From  some  Past  Poet — silent,  lost  and  dead — 
Provided  he's  torgotten  and  unread. 

Not  knowing  this,  the  Poet  chased  the  Wreath 
Till  Age  came  on,  and  Minor  still  he  chased  it  ; 

He  gained  no  nuts,  although  he'd  lost  his  teeth, 
While  Men  snatch'd  Fame   who'd   earned  no 
right  to  taste  it. 

He  knew  the  trick,  when  far  too  late  to  know  it, 

So  lost  the  Wreath  and  died  a  Minor  Poet. 


Jessie  M.  Wood. 


TO    PHYLLIS   RETURNED 
TO  TOWN 


ALL  summer  I've  worn 
a  shocking  hat, 
And  confined  myself  to 

beer. 
I've   smoked  a  pipe*  and 

economized 

Against    your   coming, 
dear. 


I've    slaved    all 
day  in  the  tor- 
rid town, 
And  saved  like 

a  paltry  Jew, 

order  to   make  a  modest 
sum 
To  spend,  my  dear,  on  you. 


My  toil  shall  pay  for  your  roses  rare, 
And  I'll  buy  with  hard-earned  fees 

The  choicest  bon-bons  I  can  find, 
Your  girlish  taste  to  please. 


Now  what  have  you  brought  me  back  to  town  ? 

Oh,  tell  me,  what  do  you  bring? 
The  heart  of  last  winter  true  to  me, 

Or  another's  engagement  ring  ? 


Mac  G  r  ego  r  Jenkins . 


45 


LENT 

NOW,  is  it  contrition, 
Without  intermission, 

That  keeps  her  devoted  head  bent  ] 
Or  is  it  confession 
Of  wicked  transgression  ? 

Oh;  no  !   'tis  the  advent  of  Lent. 
For  feeling  compunction 
Is  Fashion's  pet  "  function," 

At  about  this  same  time  every  year  ; 
The  time  for  reflection — 
And  for  the  collection 

Of  Easter  gowns  soon  to  appear. 

George  Hyde. 


47 


FOR  sale  :  A  very  fine  line  of  hearts 
At  prices  far  below  cost, 
A  circumstance  which  affords  you  a  chance 
To  replace  the  one  you  have  lost. 

Hearts  that  are  tender  ;  hearts  that  are  brave  ; 

One  that's  been  worn  on  a  sleeve 
Is  marked  down  so  low  it  surely  must  go, 

Though  it  is  somewhat  soiled,  you  perceive. 

Broken  hearts,  too,  that  have  been  "  restored  ;' 

One  that  has  only  a  crack  ; 
And  hearts  that  are  set  on  a  coronet, 

For  lovers  of  bric-a-brac. 

Sad  hearts,  glad  hearts,  hearts  of  gold, 

Hearts  that  gold  only  can  buy  ; 
And  a  heart  so  true  it  will  just  suit  you 

If  you'll  only  take  it  to  try. 

Maud  Hosford. 


49 


THE  GOLF   FIEND 

NOW  who  shall  tackle  the  Golfer  Mad 
While  his  brassie  beats  the  ground  ? 
Do  ye  ken  that  a  golfer  loon,  my  lad, 
It's  nae  safe  to  fool  around  ? 

The  court  to  the  committee  has  cried 

lt  To  a  keeper  let  him  be  thrall, 
For  he  squanders  his  gold  and  he  leaves  his  bride 

To  harrie  a  foolish  ball." 

O,  a  cannie  way  the  committee  have  found, 
And  they've  laid  out  a  course  right  well. 

For  the  links  lead  round  the  asylum  ground, 
And  the  home  hole  lies  in  his  cell. 

R.  F.  B. 


THE   DIRGE   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLDER 

HOW  can  I  sing  of  my  mistress's  chiding  ? 
How  can  I  liken  her  hair  to  the  sun  ? 
Rather  I'd  dwell  on  the  ruin  that's  hiding 
In  anthracite  coal  at  six  dollars  the  ton  ! 

How  is  it  possible,  prithee,  I  question, 
To  rhyme  of  the  graces  of  Madeline's  boot, 

While  comes  despair  at  the  very  suggestion 
Of  gas  at  one  dollar  the  vanishing  foot  ? 

How  can  I  give  my  attention  to  verses, 
Gladsome  and  dainty  as  finely  wove  silk, 

Mentally  damning  with  deep  basso  curses 
The  man  who  invented  the  drinking  of  milk  ? 

Searching  a  rhyme,  my  poor  brain  doth  but  bonow 
Figures  and  worry  till  all  seems  a  blank  ! 

How  can  I  pay  out  two  hundred  to-morrow 

With  only  one  hundred  and  eight  in  the  bank  ? 

Richard  Stillman  Poui+tt. 


THE   FULL  SUITE 


WHEN  hearts  are 
trumps  and  Dolly 
leads 

My  hand  I  closely  scan, 
For   Dolly   has   a  tricky 

way 
When  playing  with  a 


She  plays  the  Deuce  in 

every  game, 
A    Jack    she's    caught 

already. 
Herself   the   Queen,  the 

King  I'd  be 

Though    it's    Ten    to 
Nine  on  Freddie. 


She  Eight  her  way  into  my  heart, 
It's  Seven  to  win  her  kiss, 

I  am  Six  any  man, 

Five  really  lost  this  bliss. 

Be  Four  I'd  give  up  Dolly's  heart, 
If  it  should  come  my  way, 

My  country,  faith,  my  dearest  friend, 
My  brother,  I'd  be  Tray. 

Metcalfe. 


53 


THE  buds  that  bloom  on  Easter  Day 
Are  fairer  far,  I  trow, 
Than  those  that  grace  the  days  of  May 
When  gentler  zephyrs  blow. 

The  lily  nodding  in  the  breeze 

Can  by  no  circumstance, 
In  raiment,  be  compared  with  these 

Conservatory  plants. 

They  toiled  not,  neither  did  they  spin, 

But  thirty  days  they  spent 
In  idleness  repenting  sin — 

The  slow  fast-time  of  Lent. 

Lent's  last  ten  suns  looked  down  on  more 

Than  penitence  and  gloom  ; 
It  saw  corollas  forming  for 

The  buds  to  burst  in  bloom. 

Ah  !  fairer  than  the  blooms  of  May, 

When  gentle  zephyrs  blow, 
Are  buds  that  bloom  on  Easter  Day 

And  go  to  church,  I  trow  ! 

Wood  Levette  Wilson. 


I  KNOW  of  a  street  on  the  edge  of  the  town 
Where  blithely  the  sunshine  of  spring-time 

looks  down 

And  lilacs  lean  over,  all  purple  and  white, 
To  make  for  the  passing  a  path  of  delight — 
Though  Fashion  ignores  with  profoundest  disdain 
The  very  existence  of  Marigold  Lane. 

And  often  and  often  when  homeward  I'm  bound 
I  find  myself  taking  the  longest  way  'round, 
With  smiles  at  my  thoughts  as  there  comes  into  view 
A  dear  little  house,  that  would  just  do  for  two, 
Announcing  "To  Let,"  like  a  tender  refrain 
Of  songs  that  my  heart  sings  in  Marigold  Lane. 

In  fancy  sometimes  at  the  window  I  see 
Her  curly  head  nodding  a  welcome  to  me, 
And  sometimes  at  twilight  she  stands  by  the  gate, 
Half-hid  by  the  shadows,  to  listen  and  wait 
For  footsteps  she  loves — Ah,  the  castles  in  Spain 
I  build  as  I  wander  through  Marigold  Lane  ! 
57 


I 


So  dreaming  and  hoping,  I'm  biding  the  day 
When  'round  flies  the  news  that  there's  raising 

of  pay; 

And  then  in  the  gloaming  when  Nellie  and  I, 
Arm  over,  arm  under,  go  loitering  by — 
It  may  be  the  sign  will  not  hang  out  in  vain 
On  the  cottage  I  covet  in  Marigold  Lane. 

M.  E.  w. 


A   SAFE   ATTACH- 
MENT 

THE    door    of   many    a 
maiden's  heart 
Is  slightly  fastened,  ill  de- 
fended ; 
A  whispered  word,  a  blush, 

a  start, 
The  key  has  turned,  the 

siege  is  ended. 
But  she  I  worship  will  but 

mock 
At  thoughts  of  such  sweet 

perturbation, 
Her  heart  has  got  a  patent 

lock, 

And  no  "one   knows   the 
combination. 


Ah,  if  the  word  be  "  love,"  my  dear 

Which  opens  all  your  heart's  fair  treasure, 
I'll  strive  for  entrance  without  fear, 

For  my  devotion  knows  no  measure. 
But  if  it  opes  to  "  money,"  I 

Can  never  even  dare  to  try  it  ; 
Your  dear  perfection  comes  too  high 

For  me  to  ever  hope  to  buy  it. 


S.  St.  G.  Lawrence. 


OUR  HERO 

S  center-rush  he  was  our 

pride  ; 

He  killed  a  man  or  two  ; 
He  merely  touched  them  and- 

they  died  ! 
He  rowed  upon  the  crew. 

He  wore  the  mask  and  caught  in-shoots 

From  off  the  gleaming  bat. 
The  umpire  trembled  in  his  boots 

When  Slasher  said  "  How's  that  ?" 

He  broke  the  record  with  the  shot, 

And  when  we  fought  the  town 
It  took  three  proctors  and  a  lot 

Of  cops  to  hold  him  down. 

But  since  he's  left  the  college  stage 

And  vanished  from  the  scene, 
We  hear  he  writes  the  Woman's  Page 

For  Duffy's  Magazine  ! 


Harry  Romaine. 


FOOD  OF 
LOVE 

F  music  be  the  food 

of  love, 
I    am    rejoiced    to 

find 
My  passion   is  a  key 

above 
All  viands  of  that 

kind. 


No  part  of  the  domestic  cat, 

Vexed  by  a  horse's  tail, 
Can  make  my  famished  love  grow  fat 

With  its  lugubrious  wail. 

The  banjo  and  the  mandolin, 

The  zither  and  the  drum, 
The  brass  band,  with  its  fearful  din, 

Are  not  a  single  crumb. 

My  love  has  far  a  daintier  choice, 
And  strong  and  hearty  grows, 

Upon  the  music  of  Her  voice, 
In  plain,  untortured  prose. 

Harry  Rotnaine. 


61 


TWO   KISSES 


BELOW  me  in  the  garden  there 
She  treads  the  winding  path, 
And  all  the  world  seems  newly  fair, 
Such  wondrous  ways  Love  hath. 
I  am  not  seen  :  were  I  to  throw 

A  kiss,  'twould  be  no  harm, 
Since  as  the  thing  she'd  never  know 
She  could  not  take  alarm. 


SHE 

There  at  the  window  high  he  works 

And  with  no  thought  nor  care 
That  here  amongst  the  flowers  lurks 

A  maid  who  thinks  him  fair. 
Were  I  to  throw  a  kiss  to  him 

Unmaidenly  'twould  be  ; 
But  modesty  no  need  to  dim — 

If  he  should  fail  to  see. 


Go  little  kiss  to  those  dear  lips 

And  nestle  there  awhile, 
And  mayhap  at  thy  gentle  sips 

They'll  greet  thee  with  a  smile  ; 
Then  hasten  back  and  bear  with  thee 

Some  little  echo  for  me  ; 

Fly,  little  kiss,  fly  speedily — 
HE    (  Great  Scott  !  The  deuce!  She 


Richard  Stillman  Powell 


AN    ACROSTIC    PLAINT 

Never  a  fairer  maiden  breathed 
In  fabled  times  or  modern  days 
Than  she  around  whose  forehead  wreathed 
Night's  sable  locks,  with  stars  ablaze  ! 
In  distant  adoration  long 
This  soul  and  heart  in  worship  knelt, 
Nor  dared  approach  to  breathe  their  song 
Into  the  shrine  where  Beauty  dwelt  : 
Till — Ah,  that  Memory  still  can  live 
Now  joyous  Hope  is  cold  and  dead  ! 
If  you'll  read  down,  these  lines  will  give 
The  cruel,  blighting  words  she  said  ! 

R.  S.  P. 


TO   A   MODERN   GIRL 

I'VE  conned  the  daintiest  of  poets  lyrical, 
Searched  for  jewels  in  the  muse  antique, 
Delved  in  lines  romantic  and  satirical, 

And  know  whereof  I  chance  to  speak. 
But  find  no  conceit,  image  or  reflection, 

No  gem  from  genius'  pen,  however  true, 
That  hints  the  beauty  and  the  rare  perfection 
Possessed  unconsciously,  dear  heart,  by  you. 

A\  cJiibald  Douglas. 


LOVE  TAPPED   UPON  MY  LATTICE 


LOVE    tapped    upon    my 
lattice 

As  he  was  passing  by, 
Laden  with  young  June  roses, 
And    "Come    in,    Love," 
cried  I. 

Now  dost  know  what  thou  askest  ?" 
Quoth  Love,  with  dimpling  chin  ; 

I  caught  the  roses'  fragrance, 
And  begged  again,  "  Come  in." 

He  tripped  across  my  threshold  ; 

I  took  the  load  he  bore — 
Alas,  the  day  I  opened 

To  little  Love  my  door  ! 

The  roses'  crimson  petals 

Conceal  the  cruel  thorn  ; 
Sharp  in  the  throb  of  passion 

The  bitter  pang  is  born. 

And  aye,  and  aye,  forever, 

Since  earth  was  first  awake, 
There's  somewhat  in  Love's  kisses 

A  woman's  heart  doth  break. 

Yet,  oh,  the  roses'  fragrance  ! 

And,  oh,  Love's  dimpling  chin  ! 
Were  they  outside  my  lattice, 

Again  I'd  bid  them  in  ! 

A.  M.  L.  Hawet. 
66 


IN   MAMMA  S   DAY 

GIRLS  didn't  wear  a  tailor-suit, 
Mannish  gloves  and  calf-skin  boot, 
Drive  four-in-hand,  and  smoke,  and  shoot, 
In  Mamma's  day. 

Maids  never  yearned  for  politics, 
Nor  rode  a  wheel,  like  Toms  and  Dicks, 
Nor  tore  around,  with  big  golf-sticks, 
In  Mamma's  day. 

They  couldn't  swim  with  grace  and  ease, 
In  bathing  suits  cut  to  their  knees, 
And  sail  a  boat  through  stormy  seas, 
In  Mamma's  day. 

From  what  I  have  been  told,  and  know, 
Life  must  have  been  quite  dull  and  slow 
In  that  pathetic  long  ago — 
My  Mamma's  day. 

Curtey. 
67 


TO   ST.    VALENTINE 

IN  days  gone  by,  St.  Valentine, 
My  heart  was  as  you  see  ; 
Because  the  maidens  at  your  shrine 
Would  never  look  at  me. 

What  deadly  valentines  they  were 

This  mutilation  shows  ; 
For  all  those  darts  implanted  there 

Are  simple,  girlish  "noes." 

But  now,  I've  no.  such  sad  complaint 
Of  maidens,  shy  and  cold  ; 

Because  those  cavities,  dear  Saint, 
Have  all  been  filled  with  gold. 


Madeleine  Reese. 


68 


BAGGED  THE    WRONG    BIRD 

YOUNG  Hardupp  vowed  a  mighty  vow, 
"I'll  wed  a  girl  with  cash/'  said  he  ; 
"I'll  bag  a  millionairess,  though 
I  sue  a  year  on  bended  knee." 

He  sued  a  year  on  bended  knee 

With  constancy  that  never  flagged  ; 

But,  oh,  no  maiden  rich  bagged  he — 
'Twas  but  his  trousers  that  he  bagged. 

John  P.  Lyons. 


MISS  JONES 

YOU  may  mention  her  name,  but  it  never  conveys 
An  idea  of  the  exquisite  tones 
Of  her  voice  or  her  sparkling,  bewildering  ways, 
For  her  name — it  is  simply,  "  Miss  Jones  !" 

It  gives  you  no  hint  of  her  golden-brown  hair  ; 

Of  her  eyes  that  outshine  precious  stones  ; 
Of  the  flash  of  her  wit,  or  her  highly  bred  air 

When  they  merely  allude  to  "  Miss  Jones." 

It  leaves  you  to  guess  at  the  men  in  her  train, 
And  her  suitors'  expiring  groans  ; 

At  the  charm  that  proves  fatal  to  many  a  swain- 
Unexpected  in  every-day  "  Jones." 

But  when  you  have  seen  the  effect  of  her  glance 

On  raw  youth  or  decrepit  old  bones, 
You'll  admit  that  a  knight  never  shattered  a  lance 

For  a  "Queen  of  the  Lists"  like  "  Miss  Jones." 

If  her  name  could    be  changed,  what    a  gain    it 
would  be — 

A  fact  which  she  cheerfully  owns  ; 
But,  at  present,  you  see,  she's  confided  to  me, 

She  prefers  to  stay  simply — "  Miss  Jones  !" 

Harry  Romaine. 


^</-  7^~./~^3^^^-:~?       r^^    Je  I    ,-i 


BALLADE   OF   FORGOTTEN   LOVES 

SOME  poets  sing  of  sweethearts  dead, 
Some  sing  of  true  loves  far  away, 
Some  sing  of  those  that  others  wed, 
And  some  of  idols  turned  to  clay  ; 
I  sing  a  pensive  roundelay 
To  sweethearts  of  a  doubtful  lot, 

The  passions  vanished  in  a  day — 
The  little  loves  that  I've  forgot. 

For,  as  the  happy  years  have  sped, 

And  golden  dreams  have  changed  to  gray, 

How  oft  the  flame  of  love  was  fed 

By  glance,  or  smile,  from  Maud  or  May, 
When  wayward  Cupid  was  at  play  ; 

Mere  fancies,  formed  of  who  knows  what  ? 
But  still  my  debt  I  ne'er  can  pay — 

The  little  loves  that  I've  forgot. 
72 


O  joyous  hours  forever  fled  ! 

O  sudden  hopes  that  would  not  stay  ! 
Held  only  by  the  slender  thread 

Of  memory  that's  all  astray. 

Their  very  names  I  cannot  say, 
Time's  will  is  done  ;  I  know  them  not ; 

But  blessings  on  them  all,  I  pray — 
The  little  loves  that  I've  forgot. 

ENVOI 

Sweetheart,  why  foolish  fears  betray  ? 

Ours  is  the  one  true  lover's  knot  ; 
Note  well  the  burden  of  my  lay — 

The  little  loves  that  I've  forgot. 

Arthur  Grissom* 


73 


34\it?  Ufl  fo         ^-  ik^ 


DEBT   IN  TWO   COSTUMES 

WHEN  Debt  is  dressed  up  in  its  best, 
With  linen  fine  and  purple  raiment, 
With  jewels  rare  and  haughty  air — 

Why,  creditors  don't  ask  for  payment  ; 
But  when  arrayed  in  garments  frayed 

Debt  walks  the  street  with  aspect  humble- 
Without  a  friend  ;  the  men  who  lend 

Must  have  their  money  quick,  or  grumble. 


WoodLevette  Wilson. 


74 


HER  $  SHOES 


SHE  bought  them  in  the  town  one  day, 
My  lady  fair,  my  lady  gay, 
Those  dollar  shoes  ; 
She  showed  them  to  us  all  with  pride, 
The  stuff  was  coarse,  the  last  too  wide, 
The  place  uneven  where  they  tied, 
Those  dollar  shoes. 

But  when  she  put  them  on  her  feet 
They  looked  so  trim  and  fine  and  neat, 

Those  dollar  shoes, 
That  Cinderella,  coquette  fair, 
Might  have  been  glad  to  change  her  pair 
Of  glass  ones  for  a  chance  to  wear 

Those  dollar  shoes. 

So  with  all  things  my  queen  doth  touch, 
They  gain  in  grace  and  beauty  much, 

And  coarseness  lose  ; 
That  we  who  know  her  as  earth's  leaven 
Are  willing,  though  with  steps  uneven, 
To  follow  up  the  path  to  Heaven 

Those  dollar  shoes. 


75 


A    BRIEF   DESCRIPTION 

HER  eyes  that  shine  with  tender  light 
Belie  her  haughty  tone  ; 
The  sort  of  girl  you  love  at  sight. 
And  want  to  make  your  own. 

Her  lips  that  hint  of  honeyed  bliss 

Belie  her  distant  air  ; 
The  sort  of  girl  you  long  to  kiss 

But  somehow  never  dare  ! 

Harry  Romainc* 


CONJUGAL   LAMENT 

UPON  the  stairs  his  loud  tip-toes 
Arouse  me  from  a  troubled  doze, 
As  staggering  bed-ward  late  at  night, 
He  thrusts  himself  upon  my  sight, 
With  eyes  a-squint  and  ruddy  nose. 

Would'st  thou  not  feel  impelled  tp  blows, 
When,  breaking  on  thy  night's  repose, 
His  maudlin  gaze  in  full  gas-light, 
Upon  thee  stares  ? 

Quite  long  enough  I've  borne  these  woes, 
The  doors  and  windows  I  will  close, 
And  bolt  them  hard  and  fast  and  tight, 
And  leave  him  there  in  sorry  plight 
To  sober  up,  next  time  he  goes 
Upon  these  tares  ! 


Samuel N.  Pond. 


77 


A   CHRISTMAS   MEMORY 

MA  she's  home. — An'  I'm  'way  here 
At  my  A'nty's,  visitun'! 
A'nty  allus  calls  me  "  Dear," 
An'  ist  lets  me  romp  an'  run 
An'  don't  never  scold  me  none 
Like  sometimes  she  ust  to  do 
When  my  Ma  she  be  here,  too. 

Pa  he  bringed  me  here  to  stay 

'Tel  my  Ma  she's  well. — An'  nen 
He's  go'  hitch  up,  Chris'mus-day, 
An'  come  take  me  back  again 
Wher'  my  Ma's  at !     Won't  I  be 
Tickled  when  he  comes  fer  me  ! 

My  Ma  an'  my  A'nty  they 
'Uz  each  uvvers  sisters.     Pa — 

A'nty  telled  me,  th'  other  day, — 

He  corned  here  an'  married  Ma.     .     , 

A'nty  said  nen  "  Go  run  play, 

I  must  work  now  !  "     .     .     .     An'  I 

When  she  turn'  her  face  away, 
She  >uz  cryin'. — An'  nen  I 
'Tend-like  I  "  run  play  " — an'  cry. 

79 


This-here  house  o'  Aunty's  wher' 

They  'uz  borned — my  Ma  an'  her  ! — 

An'  her  Ma  'uz  my  Ma's  Ma, 

An'  her  Pa  'uz  my  Ma's  Pa — 

Ain't  that  funny  ? — An'  they're  dead  : 

An'  this-here's  "Th'  ole  Homestead."— 

An'  my  A'nty  said,  an'  cried, 

It's  mine,  too,  ef  my  Ma  died — 

Don't  know  what  she  mean — 'cause  my 

Ma  she's  nuver  go'  to  die  ! 

When  Pa  bringed  me  here  t'uz  night — 

'Way  dark  night  !     An'  A'nty  spread 
Me  a  piece — An'  light  the  light 

An'  say  I  must  go  to  bed. — 

I  cry  not  to — but  Pa  said 
"  Be  good  boy  now,  like  you  telled 

Mommy  'at  you're  go'  to  be  !  " 

An',  when  he  'uz  kissin'  me 

My  good-night,  his  cheek's  all  wet 
An'  taste  salty. — An'  he  held 

Wite  close  to  me  an'  rocked  some 

An'  laughed-like — 'tel  A'nty  come 
Git  me  while  he's  rockin'  yet. 

A'nty  he'p  me,  'tel  I  be 
Purt'-nigh  strip-pud — nen  hug  me 
In  bofe  arms  an'  lif  me  'way 
Up  in  her  high  bed — an'  pray 

Wiv  me, — 'Bout  my  Ma — an'  Pa — 
An'  ole  Santy  Glaus — an'  Sleigh — 
An'  Reindeers  an'  little  drum — 
Yes,  an'  Picture-books,  "Tom  Thumb," 
So 


An'  "  Three  Bears/'  an'  ole  "  Fee-Faw  "— 
Yes,  an'  "Tweedledee"  an'  "  Dum," 
An'  "  White  Knight"  an'  "  Squidjicum," 

An'  'most  things  you  ever  saw  ! — 
An'  when  A'nty  kissed  me,  she 
'Uz  all  cryin'  over  me  ! 

Don't  want  Santy  Glaus — nerthings 
Anykind  he  ever  brings  !— 
Don't  want  A'nty  ! — don't  want  Pa  ! — 
I  ist  only  want  my  Ma  ! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley, 


'"  jSViJ    •  •     /•'   .  j       O&tefc, 


T  F  she  knew  that  I  am  Cupid 
I  could  never,  never  win, 
For  she'd  close  the  door  upon  me 
And  I'd  ne'er  be  taken  in. 


But  she'll  think  that  I'm  an  angel, 
(The  disguise  perhaps  is  thin), 

So  she'll  let  me  enter  freely 
And  then  she'll  be  taken  in. 


D.  D.  P. 


TO  

'  HP  WAS  at  a  ball.     In  vain  I  tried 
1        To  feel  less  like  a  social  martyr, 

When,  lying  on  the  floor  I  spied 
A  thing  of  yellow  silk — a ! 

I  put  a  dash  there,  for  'tis  said 
To  write  it  plainly  out  amiss  is  ; 

Yet  England's  motto  may  be  read 
Upon  just  such  a  thing  as  this  is. 

I  stoop'd,  and  hid  it  in  my  hand, 

And  wonder'd  who  might  be  the  loser. 

She  c^uld  not  ask  me  for  the  band  ! 

How  such  a  question  would  confuse  her  ! 

Returning  with  it  to  my  place, 

I  wonder'd  if  my  cheek  were  flushing  ; 

In  turn  I  scann'd  each  lovely  face, 
Until  I  saw  how  you  were  blushing  ! 
84 


My  own  perception  I  had  wrong'd— 
To  think  that  I  would  not  have  known  her, 

To  whom  this  dainty  band  belong'd  ; 
No  one  but  you  could  be  the  owner. 


So  thus  I  send  it  back 

to  you, 
Around  this  bunch  of 

blushing  roses  ! 
One   found    it    whom 

you  never  knew  ; 

Whose  name  no  hint 

of  mine  discloses. 


I  would  not  have  you  guess  'twas  I, 
For  that  might  put  constraint  upon  you. 

Perhaps  you'll  know  me  by-and-by  ; 

Perhaps  you'll  love  me  !  When  I've  won  you. 

I'll  whisper  that* 'twas  I  who  found 
This  clinging  silken  band  of  yellow. 

We're  strangers,  still  I  will  be  bound, 
You,  and  no  other  have  its  tellow  ! 

And  now  may  my  respect  for  you 

Plead  pardon  for  these  rhyming  fancies  ; 

For  never  motto  was  more  true 

Than  f{  Honi  soit  qui  mal y  pense  "  is  ! 

Denison  Eldridge. 


86 


HER   WISH 

THREE  maids  together  sat  one  eve 
And  chatted,  in  the  gloaming, 
Of  what  they'd  wish  for,  most  of  all, 
Through  all  their  fancy  roaming. 

The  first  one  said,  and  heaved  a  sigh, 
"  Could  I  have  one  wish  granted, 

I'd  long  for  wealth  ;  I  am  so  poor, 
'Tis  what  I've  always  wanted." 

"  But  I  have  wealth,"  the  second  said, 

"  And  still  I'm  sad  and  lonely  ; 
And  so  I  long  for  lover  true, 
Who'd  love  me  for  love  only." 

"  And  I  have  wealth  and  lover  both, 

Yet  I  don't  think  it  wrong  or 
Wicked,"  the  third  one  said.    "  But,  oh  ! 
I  long  for  something  to  long  for !  " 

E.  If.  Graham  Dewey. 


LAY  OF  THE  GRATEFUL  PATIENT 

TO    HIS    NURSE 

ONE  fully  enjoys  being  wracked  with  diseases, 
Afflicted  with  sneezes, 
And  subject  to  chills  ; 

Be  hers  but  the  hand  that  pours  oil  on  one's  spasms, 
Applies  cataplasms, 
Administers  pills. 

Oh!  poisons  in  general,  avoided  as  frightful, 

Are  simply  delightful  ; 

Yes,  wormwood  and  myrrh, 
And  jalap  and  strychnine  and  raw  jaborandi, 

Are  luscious  as  candy, 

If  given  by  her! 

Oh!    Who  would  not  highly  appreciate  anguish, 

And  cheerfully  languish, 

When  Agony  smote 
His  frame  on  its  way  through  this  lachrymal  valley, 

If  only  Miss  Sally 

Were  spraying  his  throat! 

F.  D. 


A  ROMANCE   OF  TO-DAY 

WHERE  are  you  going  ?     My  pretty 
maid. 

Into  "Society,"  Sir,  she  said. 
Well,  I'll  not  marry  you,  My  pretty  maid. 
You  won't  ?  then  I'll  sue  you,  Sir,  she  said. 


FINNIGIN   TO    FLANNIGAN 

O  UPERINTINDINT  was  Flannigan  ; 
^5     Boss  av  the  siction  was  Finnigin  ; 
Whiniver  the  kyars  got  offen  the  thrack 
An'  muddled  up  things  t'  th'  divil  an'  back, 
Finnigin  writ  it  to  Flannigan, 
Afther  the  wrick  wuz  all  on  agin  ; 
That  is,  this  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigan. 

Whin  Finnigin  furst  writ  to  Flannigan, 
He  writed  tin  pages — did  Finnigin. 
An'  he  tould  jist  how  the  smash  occurred  ; 
Full  minny  a  tajus,  blunderin'  wurrd 
Did  Finnigin  write  to  Flannigan 
Afther  the  cars  had  gone  on  agin. 
That  wuz  how  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigan. 

Now  Flannigan  knowed  more  than  Finnigin- 
He'd  more  idjucation — had  Flannigan  ; 
An'  it  wore'm  clane  an'  complately  out 
To  tell  what  Finnigin  writ  about 
In  his  writin'  to  Muster  Flannigan. 
So  he  writed  back  to  Finnigin  : 
Don't  do  sich  a  sin  agin  ; 
Make  'em  brief,  Finnigin  ! " 


Whin  Finnigin  got  this  from  Flannigan, 

He  blushed  rosy  rid — did  Finnigin  ; 

An'  he  said  :  "  I'll  gamble  a  whole  month's  pa-ay 

That  it  will  be  minny  an'  minny  a  da-ay 

Before  Sup'rintindint,  that's  Flannigan, 

Gits  a  whack  at  this  very  same  sin  agin. 

From  Finnigin  to  Flannigan 

Repoorts  won't  be  long  agin." 


Wan  da-ay  on  the  siction  av  Finnigin, 

On  the  road  sup'rintinded  by  Flannigan, 

A  rail  gave  way  on  a  bit  av  a  curve 

An'  somekyars  went  off  as  they  made  the  swerve 
"  There's  nobody  hurted,"  sez  Finnigin, 
"  But  repoorts  must  be  made  to  Flannigan." 

An'  he  winked  at  McGorrigan, 

As  married  a  Finnigin. 

He  wuz  shantyin'  thin  wuz  Finnigin, 

As  minny  a  railroader's  been  agin, 

An'  th'  shmoky  oP  lamp  wuz  burnin'  bright 

In  Finnigin 's  shanty  all  that  night — 

Bilin'  down  his  repoort,  was  Finnigin  ! 

An'  he  writed  this  here  :  "  Muster  Flannigan  : 

Off  agin,  on  agin, 

Gone  agin. — Finnigin." 

S.  W.  Gittilan. 


THE   FAD   OBSOLETE 

I   HAVE  no  foolish  fad  for  pets 
Nor  spoons  procured  from  famous  places  ; 
No  fad  for  ancient  amulets, 

Or  jewels,  bric-a-brac,  or  laces. 
No  fad  for  beggars  smirched  and  small, 

Nor  any  crying  craze  excessive  ; 
I  do  not  yearn — no,  not  at  all — 

For  fads  that  fit  I  a  fetnme  progressive. 

The  sewerage  of  the  city  may 

Be  very  bad,  for  all  my  knowledge; 
I  have  no  fad  to  form  the  way 

Our  modern  maids  are  taught  at  college. 
For  female  clubs  no  love  have  I, 

Nor  congresses  of  gadding  mothers  ; 
For  politics  I  do  not  sigh — 

I  want  no  place  possessed  by  others. 

I'm  just  a  silly,  simple  soul — 

My  club  is  by  my  study  fire  ; 
And  round  its  warmth  I  find  the  whole 

Sweet  sum  that  fills  my  heart's  desire. 
A  little  gold,  and  lots  of  love 

And  faith,  and  all  things  high  and  human  ; 
So  if  a  fad  my  motives  move, 

It  is  to  be  a  normal  woman. 

Maude  Andrews, 


TO   A  WOULD-BE   NEW   WOMAN 

AND  thou  wouldst  know  this  wicked  world  ? 
Try  not  that  task,  my  sweet  ; 
Tne  paths  that  wander  through  the  marsh 

Are  not  for  thy  dear  feet. 
Deep  in  the  depths,  back  of  the  gaze 

Of  thy  sweet  wondering  eyes, 
Far  happier  thought,  far  better  hope 
Of  future  gladness  lies. 

There's  love  untold  and  store  of  joy 

And  wealth  of  happiness  for  thee, 
Gaze  not  then  forth  with  saddened  look 

To  know  the  world's  iniquity. 
Think  rather  of  the  Joys  of  life, 

Love's  bliss  and  rapture, 
And  let  some  other,  uglier  maid 

The  suffrage  capture. 

Metcalfe. 
95 


A  CRITIC 

SHE  wanders  through  St.  Peter's, 
And  makes  herself  at  home; 
She  shudders  at  the  Altar, 
But  quite  approves  the  Dome. 

With  coldly  cultured  glasses, 

And  discriminating  frown, 
She  calmly  does  the  Vatican, 

And  turns  old  masters  down. 

An  {l  Unknown  "  Nymph  may  please  her, 

If  "  rapturously  Greek/' 
But  Raphael  is  "  spotty  " 

And  lacking  in  ll  technique." 

He  doesn't  "satisfy"  her, 

But  Titian  was  "  a  dear." 
Del  Sarto  "  knew  his  colors  " 

And  she  likes  his  atmosphere." 

To  hear  her  on  mosaics, 

On  frescoes  or  on  jade, 
You  never  would  believe  her 

A  breezy  Western  maid, 

Or  dream,  before  she  went  abroad, 

With  wild  expectant  joy, 
She'd  never  traveled  twenty  miles 

From  Cairo,  Illinois ! 

Harry  Romaine. 


PRISCILLA 


hath  come  back  to  town 
1        A  little  bandit  queen, 
Her  cheek  hath  robbed  the  berry's  brown, 

Her  eye  the  dewdrop's  sheen. 
Upon  her  lips  there  brightly  glows 

The  poppy's  crimson  hue, 
With  Autumn  music  in  her  toes 

She  charms  the  avenue. 

Alas  !  how  wildly  hearts  will  beat 
_  That  late  kept  slowest  time  ; 

Alas  !  how  many  a  snowy  sheet 

Will  meet  its  fate  in  rhyme  ! 
Laugh,  Cupid  laugh,  with  saucy  glee 

At  all  the  pangs  in  store, 
But  never  point  thy  dart  at  me  — 
My  heart  was  hers  before. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


THE  RIDE  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX 

(BROUGHT  UP  TO  DATE) 

I   SPRANG  to  the  saddle  and  Joris  and  he  ; 
I  pedaled,  Dirck  hustled,  we  scorched  all  three  ; 
"  Good-speed  !  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  as  our  safeties  went  through; 
Not  a  word  to  each  other,  we  kept  the  great  pace, 
Neck  by  neck,  wheel  for  wheel,  never  changing  our  place 

I  turned  on  my  saddle  and  set  the  gear  higher, 
Inspected  each  pedal,  examined  each  tire, 
Then  lowered  the  handle,  leaned  over  a  bit  ; 
Nor  pedaled  less  steadily  Joris  a  whit. 

At  Aorschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 

Just  like  a  new  wheel  ere  the  spokes  are  begun, 

And  his  light  through  the  mist  as  we  whizzed  along  fast 

Gave  me  sight  of  my  speedy  new  safety  at  last. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  foot  ! 

Your  wheel  has  done  bravely  the  pace  it  was  put  ; 

We  will    tell  them   at  Aix — "  then  we   heard  the  quick 

wheeze 

Of  the  air  from  his  tires,  as  he  fell  on  his  knees  ; 
And  we  left  him  there,  cursing  each  card  in  the  deck, 
Slowly  dragging  his  wheel,  with  the  tires  'round  his  neck. 
96 


So  we  were  left  pedaling,  Joris  and  I — 
Just  the  whizz  and  the  whir  and  the  sun  in  the  sky  ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white; 
And  "  Scorch  !  "  gasped  old  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight  !  " 
c  How  they'll  greet  us  !  " — and  all  in  a  moment  his  wheel 
Struck  a  tree  with  a  crash  and  a  hideous  squeal  ; 
And  there  was  my  safety,  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  its  tires  getting  soft,  and  its  good  sprocket  chain 
Making  sounds  like  the  eld  oaken  bucket  again. 
Then  I  cast  loose  my  sweater,  each  glove  1  let  fall  ; 
Rode  up  on  the  sidewalk  with  pitiless  gall  ; 
Threw  down  my  "ki-yi  gun,"  leaned  over  my  bar, 
Till  right  into  Aix  I  had  pedaled  from  far. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  'round, 

As' I  sate  with  my  wheel  'twixt  my  knees  and  the  ground. 

And  all  of  the  crowd  were  so  pleased  that  they  grinned 

As  I  pumped  down  its  tires  their  last  measure  of  wind, 

Which  the  burgesses  voted,  by  common  consent, 

To  the  safety  which  safely  brought  safety  from  Ghent. 

Irwin  Beaumont. 


97 


THE   FALL  OF 
CORYDON 

IN  Arcady,  wherever  that 
may  be, 
A  shepherd   sat  beneath  a 

spreading  tree  ; 
A  happy  youth  who  dearly 

loved  to  dream, 
Down  by  the  shady  margin 

of  the  stream, 
Of  that  fair  maiden  whom 

he  loved  the  best. 
The  thought  of  her  made  all 

his  life  seem  blessed  ; 
And  when  the  fit  was  on 

him  he  would  play 
Upon  his  pipes  some  simple, 

childish  lay, 
And  verses  make  in  honor 

of  the  maid. 

This  was  a  task  that  he  had  oft  essayed, 
Nor  ever  failed  ;  his  voice  rose  sweet  and  wild, 
For  Corydon  was  joyous  Nature's  child. 
At  last  there  came  into  the  realm  of  light, 
I  grieve  to  say,  a  very  wicked  sprite, 
Who  said  to  Corydon,  "  Why  spend  your  days 
98 


In  this  drear  solitude,  nor  know  the  ways 

Of  those  who  throng  the  city  and  the  town — 

'Tis  only  there  that  thou  canst  gain  renown. 

Wilt  be  a  child  and  never  be  a  man  ? 

Renounce  thy  pipes  and  give  them  back  to  Pan  ; 

The  town  alone  can  lasting  pleasure  give. 

Oh,  come  with  me,  I'll  teach  thee  how  to  live  !  " 

Ah,  foolish  swain  !  can  this  indeed  be  thou  ? 

I  must  confess  I  hardly  know  thee  now, 

With  thy  new  friends — the  city's  best,  they  say — 

A  "  chappie  "  thou  art  called.    Alack-a-day  ! 

Such  trousers,  canes,  and  coats  if  one  should  see 

He'd  say  with  S.,  "  What  fools  these  mortals  be!  " 

The  joys  of  Nature  thou  hast  left  behind  ; 

Thy  vacant  stare  reveals  an  empty  mind. 

Thou  and  thy  kind  have  long  abjured  love's  reign, 

And  bags  of  gold  are  all  ye  seek  to  gain  ; 

Live  clothes-racks  are  ye,  neither  more  nor  less, 

But  soul  and  body  given  up  to  dress. 

How  sad  a  fall  !     Alas,  can  these  be  men  ? 

Let's  have  the  child  of  Nature  back  again. 

W.  B.  A. 


T 


TRACED 

[  S  this  the  office  of  Cupid's 

Express 
And  Transfer   Company  ? 

Yes?    Well,  see 
This  bill  of  lading  for  nothing 

less 
Than  somebody's  shipment 

of  love  to  me. 
1 1  send  you  all  and  my  best  of 

love '  ; 

It's  properly  written  and  here's  my  name 
As  consignee,  with  her  own  above  ; 

Where  have  you  been  since  the  package  came  ? 

(l  Why  didn't  you  forward  the  same  at  once  ? 

How  much  delaying  do  you  allow  ? 
This  place  is  run  by  a  perfect  dunce ! 

Why  don't  you  offer  it  over  now  ?  " 
The  little,  spectacled  Cupid-clerk 

Replied,  "  Directly."     With  that  he  took 
A  heavy  volume  and  fell  to  work 

At  keenly  searching  the  mighty  book. 

"  'Twas  shipped  correctly,"  he  muttered — li  Oh  ! 

I  understand,"  and  he  wagged  his  head. 
"  The  parcel  didn't  directly  go 

To  where  you're  living,  because,"  he  said, 
"  She  sent  instructions — oh,  quit  that  fuss  ! — 

As  plain  as  any  could  ever  be, 
(First  signing  papers  relieving  us) 

To  change  the  name  of  the  consignee." 

Layton  Brewer. 


AN  ARCADIAN,  FLIRTATION    , 

"  T T'S  very  odd/  dekr' Chloe,'  to  'me," '  ' 
1     Said  Corydon  one  day, 
1 '  That  I  should  always  Strephon  see, 
Whene'er  I  come  this  way. 

"  You  tell  me  that  you  like  him  not, 

But  it  seems  very  queer 
That  he  should  always  be  about 
Whenever  I'm  not  here." 

"  Oh,  silly,  silly  Corydon," 

Chloe  answered  in  a  minute, 

"  You  know  you  are  the  only  one, 
And  Strephon  isn't  in  it." 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  will  not  be  cajoled — 

I'll  leave  you  unto  Strephon, 
He's  welcome  to  a  flirt  so  bold  " — 
And  exit  Corydon. 

Then  up  rose  Strephon  where  he  lay 

Behind  a  knoll  of  grass, 
And  said,  "  Good-bye,  I  will  not  stay 

To  court  such  fickle  lass." 

So  like  the  dog  who  wanted  both 
The  shadow  and  the  bone, 

Chloe  wanted  lovers  two,  forsooth, 
So  she  was  left  alone. 

L'ENVOI. 

To  have  .two  strings  unto  your  bow 

Is  quite  the  proper  thing, 
But  it  is  hard  to  keep,  dear  Chloe, 

Two  beaux  upon  a  string. 


(WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  MUCH  SOCIETY 
VERSE) 

WHEN  first  I  saw  fair-featured  Grace, 
In  dainty,  tailor-fashioned  gown, 
I  fell  in  love  with  her  sweet  face 

And  pooh-poohed  at  her  escort,  Brown. 
The  fellow's  rich,  but  such  a  clown  ! 
I  did  not  fear  he'd  rival  me, 

I,  Reginald  de  Courcy  Browne, 
With  wealth  and — looks,  and  pedigree. 

I  set  the  man  a  red-hot  pace  ; 

It  was  the  talk  of  all  the  town  ; 
I  knew  that  I  was  loved  by  Grace — 

I  knew  it  by  that  yokel's  frown. 

My  ancestors  won  great  renown, 
While  Brown  has  no  ancestral  tree. 

I  knew  I  could  the  fellow  down 
With  wealth  and— looks,  and  pedigree. 


She's  married  now  ;  has  rare  point  lace, 

And  jewels  fit  to  deck  a  crown. 
The  man  who  calls  her  "  darling  Grace  " 

Is  not  the  fellow  they  call  Brown. 

No,  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  town  ; 
I  knew  she  'd  not  say  no  to  me, 

One  rarely  sees  Dame  Fortune  frown 
On  wealth  and — looks,  and  pedigree. 


You  thought  that  Grace  would 

marry  Brown, 
As  in   most  ballads  that 

you  see, 
But  she  did  not.     For  her 

no  clown — 
But  wealth   and 
— looks,    and 
pedigree. 

Charles  Battell  Loomis. 


WHEN  NELLY  HANGS  HER  STOCKING  UP 

THE  sun  deserts  his  flaming  car, 
Night  ends  the  winter's  day; 
Each  moon-kissed  snowflake  seems  a  star 
In  earth's  white  Milky  Way. 

The  lights  go  out  about  the  town, 
Mid  crash  and  clang  of  locking  up, 

And  some  one  wears  a  snowy  gown, 
When  Nelly  hangs  her  stocking  up. 
104 


I  rarely  pine  for  earthly  dross, 

'Tis  just  my  simple  way, 
But  being  poor  's  the  cruel  cross 

I  bear  each  Christmas  day. 

As  chiming  bells  betray  its  birth 
I  drain  the  dregs  in  sorrow's  cup, 

And  sighing,  wish  I  owned  the  earth, 
When  Nelly  hangs  her  stocking  up. 


Earle  H  Eaton. 


105 


FORTY  YEARS    AFTER 

WE  climbed  to  the  top  of  Goat  Point  hill, 
Sweet  Kitty,  my  sweetheart,  and  I  ; 
And  watched  the  moon  make  stars  on  the  waves; 

And  the  dim  white  ships  go  by, 
While  a  throne  we  made  on  a  rough  stone  wall, 

And  the  king  and  the  queen  were  we  ; 
And  I  sat  with  my  arm  about  Kitty, 
And  she  with  her  arm  about  me. 

The  water  was  mad  in  the  moonlight, 

And  the  sand  like  gold  where  it  shone. 
And  our  hearts  kept  time  to  its  music, 

As  we  sat  in  the  splendor  alone. 
And  Kitty's  dear  eyes  twinkled  brightly, 

And  Kitty's  brown  hair  blew  so  free, 
While  I  sat  with  my  arm  about  Kitty, 

And  she  with  her  arm  about  me. 

Last  night  we  drove  in  our  carriage, 

To  the  wall  at  the  top  of  the  hill  ; 
And  though  we're  forty  years  older, 

We're  children  and  sweethearts  still. 
And  we  talked  again  of  that  moonlight, 

That  danced  so  mad  on  the  sea, 
When  I  sat  with  my  arm  about  Kitty, 

And  she  with  her  arm  about  me. 

106 


The  throne  on  the  wall  was  still  standing, 

But  we  sat  in  the  carriage  last  night  ; 
For  a  wall  is  too  high  for  old  people 

Whose  foreheads  have  linings  of  white. 
And  Kitty's  waist  measure  is  forty, 

While  mine  is  full  fifty  and  three  ; 
So  I  can't  get  my  arm  about  Kitty, 

Nor  can  she  get  both  hers  round  me. 

H.  H.  Porter. 


YE  SLEIGHRIDE  PARTIE 

YE  noisie  sleighride  starts  with  merrie  din, 
Eche  gentil  mayde  ben  well  y  tucken  In, 
And  oftenwhyles  illnatured  urchins  shy 
Ye  festive  snow-balle  swift  as  they  passe  bye. 
Ye  bashfulle  swayne  hyme  thinks,  tho'  yet  afraid, 
To  haply  hugge  some  comely  simple  mayde, 
And  ever  and  anon  a  voice  commands, 
Betwixt  ye  trumpets'  peales:  "  Hold  uppe  your  hands!  " 

When  as  returns  eche  manne  and  mayden  faire, 
Nonne  sound  brasts  out  uponne  ye  frostie  aire, 
Save  when  perchannce  in  shawl-enveloped  blisse 
A  blundering  yokel  gives  too  loud  a  kisse  ; 
Or  when  ye  uninformed,  foolish  wight, 
Well  meaning,  hugges  ye  tender  mayde  too  tight. 
Nonne  word  is  spoke,  for  in  ye  mone-light  dimme, 
Eche  felloe  kens  ye  reste  ben  onto  hym. 

Jack  Stevens. 
107 


TWO    VERSES 

He 

AVERSE  to  thee,  dear  one,  I  send 
And  in  it  let  my  pen  repeat 
The  words  my  heart  doth  ever  lend 

To  coward  tongue.     Here  at  thy  feet 
Lie  heart  and  verse — and  both  are  fain 
108 


To  prove  how  loyal  love  may  be  ; 
Oh,  stoop,  sweet  heart,  do  not  disdain 

A  verse  to  thee  ! 

Sbe 

A  verse  to  thee,  sweet  sir,  I  send : 
Forgive  its  lines  if  halt  and  lame; 

Words  that  from  out  the  heart  do  wend 
On  paper  do  not  look  the  same. 

So,  should  this  poor  verse  not  impart 
What  I  would  say — know  that  it  be 

To  prove  that  I  am  not,  Sweetheart, 

Averse  to  thee  ! 

Richard  Sfillman  Powell. 


MY    POEMS 

MY  "  Hope  "  and  "  Faith  "  bought  a  modish  gown, 
My  "  Longings  "  a  decentish  hat. 
My  "  Fond  Heart "  went  for  the  latest  in  gloves, 
And  my  "  Moods  "  for  this  and  that. 

My  "  Song  of  Peace  "  meant  a  stylish  wrap. 

I  squandered  my  "  Spring"  for  a  muff, 
And  spent  every  cent  of  my  "  Hoarded  Gold  " 

For  the  quaintest,  furriest  ruff. 

And  still  my  wardrobe  is  incomplete, 

O,  ye  editors,  cruel  cranks, 
For  the  "  Sonnet  "  that  ought  to  furnish  shoes 

Has  been  thrice  "  returned  with  thanks." 

Ida  Warden  Wbeder. 
109 


LINES  ON  AN   X-RAY   PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY 

SHE  is  so  tall,  so  slender ;  and  her  bones — 
Those  frail  phosphates,  those  carbonates  of  lime, — 
Are  well  produced  by  cathode  rays  sublime, 
By  oscillations,  amperes,  and  by  ohms. 
Her  dorsal  vertebras  are  not  concealed 
By  epidermis,  but  are  well  revealed. 

Around  her  ribs,  those  beauteous  twenty-four, 
Her  flesh  a  halo  makes,  misty  in  line, 
Her  noseless,  eyeless  face  looks  into  mine, 

And  I  but  whisper,  "  Sweetheart,  Je  t'  adore." 
Her  white  and  gleaming  teeth  at  me  do  laugh. 
Ah  lovely,  cruel,  sweet  cathodograph  ! 

Lawrence  K.  Russel. 


AFFINITY 

IN  cycles  past,  when  here  on  earth  before, 
I  met  and  wooed  a  maid,  the  sweetest  maid, 
With  face  so  like  to  thine,  and  smile  as  sweet, 
And  deep  brown  eyes,  that  beamed  as  bright 
As  those  that  window  forth  thy  soul, 
And  steal  away  my  heart  and  peace  of  mind. 
I  wooed  her,  soon  to  lose  her,  how  I  know  not, 
And  ever  since  have  sought  her,  far  and  wide, 
Feeling  that  I  would  know  her,  and  she,  me  ; 
Full  oft  have  thought  I  saw  her  coming, 
And,  with  glad  rush,  sprang  forth  to  meet  her, 
To  find,  on  nearer  look,  that  'twas  some  other  soul, 
And,  saddened,  turned  to  seek  again  for  her,  my  own. 
But  O,  glad  thought  !  when,  in  this  latest  life, 
Mine  eyes  first  met  thine  own,  my  heart  stood  still, 
Then  sang,  and  sang  again,  "  'Tis  she,  'tis  she,  at  last," 
And  clear  thy  spirit  answered  back  "  'Tis  thee  at  last." 
Our  quest  was  done. 


B 


A   MODERN   PSYCHE 

(SHE  SPEAKS) 
UT  do  not  go — I  like  to  have  you  near  me, 


Not  quite  so  near — sit  there,  sir,  if  you  please, 
The  orchestra  is  silent  ;  you  can  hear  me  ; 
And  distance  puts  us  both  more  at  our  ease. 

I  missed  you  yesterday  past  all  expression, 

Though  winged  with  song  and  mirth  the  bright  hours 

flew  ; 
Because  I  think — pray  mark  my  frank  confession — 

That  no  one  loves  me  quite  so  well  as  you. 


It  may  be  as  you  say,  that  I  am  taking 

A  false  step  that  I  never  can  retrace  ; 
Perhaps  some  day  will  come  a  bitter  waking, 

When  love  has  fled  with  youth  and  youth's  sweet 
grace. 

Listen  !  there's  someone  singing  "  Traviata  :  " 
"  Gayly  through  life  " — Ah,  yes  !  'tis  apropos  ! 

Your  arm,  mon  ami.     A  swift  waltz  will  scatter 
And  turn  to  blissful  breath  those  sighs  of  woe. 

'Tis  strange  !     I  do  not  care  to  take  your  heart,  sir, 
In  fair  exchange  ;  and  yet,  strong  jealous  wrath 

Would  kindle  all  my  soul,  should  you  depart,  sir, 
To  lay  it  in  some  other  woman's  path. 

Selfish,"  am  I,  and  "void  of  feelings  tender?  " 
Perhaps  ;  but,  then,  I'm  sure  you  can  but  own 

That  for  a  foot  so  finely  arched  and  slender 
A  heart  is  just  the  fittest  stepping-stone. 

And  if  you  bade  me  cease  my  idle  playing 

On  the  tired  chords  my  hands  have  swept  for  years, 

I  think  the  moonlight  o'er  my  pillow  straying 
Would  find  it  slightly  wet  with  "  idle  tears." 

And  yet  I  love  you  not.     Nay,  do  not  start  ! 

The  reason,  sir,  you  never  could  discover  ; 
Another  mystery  of  a  woman's  heart — 

I  love  the  love,  but  cannot  love  the  lover. 

Eti% a  Calvert  Hall. 


THE    HAPPY   MAN 

THE  news  ran  fast — the  man  of  mirth  was  dead  ! 
They  brought  the  tidings  to  the  young  king's  door, 
And  royal  heads  were  bowed,  and  masses  said, 
While  women  wept,  and  men  lamented  sore. 

But  said  the  king  to  one,  a  trusted  slave  : 

"  Go  thou  at  night  to  where  the  dead  man  lies 

And  search  and  find  the  amulet  that  gave 
Him  power  from  Sorrow's  all-embracing  eyes 


To  hide;  for  sleepless  on  my  couch  I  toss, 
Vext  lest  my  foe  overtake  me  with  his  guile, 

The  day  is  darkened  by  some  cloud  of  loss  ; 

I  know  not  how  this  man  could  jest  and  smile  !  " 

Then  came  the  slave  again,  and  answer  made  : 
"  No  charm,  O  king,  that  happy  man  did  wear, 

Save  this — a  dagger  with  a  two-edged  blade, 
This  bore  he  in  his  heart  ;  we  found  it  there, 

And  while  we  stood  amazed  such  thing  to  see, 
Upon  his  couch  arose  and  spake  the  dead  : 

'  Death  was  the  sweetest  boon  Life  gave  to  me, 
My  jests  and  smiles  scarce  hid  my  pain,'  he  said." 

Annie  M.  L.  Halves. 


115 


A   B  C   OF  LITERATURE 

A  IS  tor  Anthony  Hope, 
Who  gives  to  his  fancy  free  scope  ; 
In  turret  and  tower 
His  characters  cower, 
Or  make  hairbreadth  escapes  by  a  rope. 

BIS  for  bashful  James  Barrie, 
From  the  land  of  the  kilt  and  Glengarry  : 
We've  read  him  to  date, 
And  his  next  we  await, 
For  we  wonder  whom  Tommy  will  marry. 

CIS  for  colorful  Crane, 
Who  has  a  phenomenal  brain  ; 
His  language  amazes, 
He  writes  in  blue  blazes, 
And  his  verses  are  really  insane. 
116 


DIS  for  R.  Harding  Davis, 
And  jolly  good  stones  he  gave  us  ; 
Van  Bibber  will  do, 
And  Gallagher  too, 
But  from  his  war-notes,  the  saints  save  us. 

EIS  for  George  Egerton, 
Whose  Keynotes  were  rather  good  fun  • 
But  her  themes  pathologic, 
And  terms  pedagogic, 
Are  things  the  Young  Person  should  shun. 

FIS  for  Frances  Burnett, 
Who  revels  in  plain  epithet ; 
Her  people  of  quality, 
Though  given  to  jollity, 
Are  the  worst  that  we  ever  have  met. 

GIS  tor  Mr.  Grant  Allen, 
Who  pours  out  his  views  by  the  gallon  ; 
His  books  are  improper, 
But  he's  a  Hill-Topper, 
So  he  tears  not  the  critic's  sharp  talon. 

HIS  for  William  Dean  Howells, 
As  wise  as  the  wisest  of  owls  ; 
The  subject  of  jokes 
Of  frivolous  folks, 
At  which  he  good-naturedly  growls. 

[IS  for  Ian  Maclaren, 
Who  knows  about  Moses  and  Aaron  ; 
But  in  stories  and  tales 
He  signally  fails, 

For  ot  artistic  interest  they're  barren. 
117 


JIS  for  jimp  Henry  James, 
Who  expounds  lofty  motives  and  aims 
With  sentences  long 
And  arguments  strong, 
And  the  most  unpronounceable  names. 

KIS  for  capable  Kipling, 
Who,  though  he's  accounted  a  stripling? 
Writes  stories  and  rhymes 
Right  up  to  the  times 
About  loving  and  fighting  and  tippling. 

LIS  for  lean  Andrew  Lang, 
Who  recently  saw,  with  a  pang, 
That  a  man  up  in  Maine 
Stole  the  work  of  his  brain, 
And  he  gave  him  a  lengthy  harangue. 

MIS  Maurice  Maeterlinck, 
Whose  dramas  are  graveyards  in  ink  j 
Abstract,  esoteric, 
Symbolic,  hysteric — 
To  read  him  would  drive  us  to  drink. 

NIS  for  noxious  Nordau, 
Who  pictures  the  terrible  woe 
In  store  for  the  race 
Since  we've  fallen  from  grace, 
And  surely  the  Doctor  should  know. 

OIS  for  Miss  Olive  Schreiner, 
Whose  writings  grow  finer  and  finer  ; 
She  certainly  seems 
To  be  given  to  dreams, 
Of  which  she's  the  only  diviner. 


PIS  for  Popular  Parker, 
Who  writes  of  the  North,  where  it's  darker  ; 
His  Pretty  Pierre 
Is  drawn  with  great  care, 
But  y almond  he  isn't  a  marker. 

IS  for  quick-witted  UQ_," 
At  home  on  a  staff  or  a  crew  ; 
With  vigor  and  skill 
He  handles  a  quill, 
Or  paddles  his  well-loved  canoe. 

RIS  for  Richard  Le  Gallienne, 
Who  really  deserves  a  medallion 
That  his  Fancies  and  Q^iest 
Were  never  suppressed  ; 
But  they  ought  to  be  writ  in  Italian. 

SIS  for  Sad  Sarah  Grand^ 
Who  marital  happiness  banned  ; 
Her  public  she  vexes 
With  problems  of  sexes 
Which  most  of  us  can't  understand, 

TIS  for  terse  Thomas  Hardy  ; 
Whose  works  we  with  wonder  regard.     He 
Has  written  for  years, 
But  it  somehow  appears 
His  moral  convictions  were  tardy. 

UIS  for  dear  Uncle  Remus, 
To  praise  him  'twould  surely  beseem  us  ; 
We've  contracted  a  habit 
Of  quoting  Br'er  Rabbit, 
Or  poor  old  Br'er  Wolf  in  extremis. 

n9 


VIS  Victoria  Crosse, 
Who  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  loss, 
For  her  Woman  who  Wouldn't 
Or  Couldn't,  or  Shouldn't, 
Is  nothing  but  driveling  dross 

WIS  Mrs.  Ward, 
By  whom  we  are  awfully  bored  ; 
Robert  Elsmere  we  stood, 
And  Marcella  was  good, 
But  when  Tressady  came  we  were  floored. 

XIS  the  author  unknown, 
Who  signs  any  name  but  his  own  ; 
And  though  nobody  claims 
The  Descendant  and  James, 
In  their  pages  good  writing  is  shown. 

ZIS  for  Zangwill  the  Zealous, 
Of  whom  our  own  critics  are  jealous, 
But  in  epigram  keen, 
Free  from  malice  or  spleen, 
Those  foreigners  seem  to  excel  us. 

Carolyn  Wells, 


WHEN  MABEL   SMILES 

WHEN  Mabel  smiles  my  heart  beats  high, 
A  softer  azure  tints  the  sky, 
And  zephyrs  sweet  flit  laughing  by, 

With  strains  unheard  before, 
While  I  look  in  her  peerless  eyes, 
And  envy  not  the  rich  and  wise, 
Nor  heavenward  gaze  with  wistful  sighs  ; 
For  heaven  can  yield  no  more. 

When  Mabel  frowns  the  world  is  drear, 
Each  trembling  dewdrop  seems  a  tear, 
The  roses  droop  in  grief  and  fear, 

And  cease  to  breathe  perfume. 
Alas,  for  me,  a  mournful  swain, 
The  dismal  moments  drag  in  pain, 
For  who  could  bear  to  meet  disdain 

From  lips  so  full  of  bloom  ! 

When  Mabel  smiles  my  heart  is  proud. 
When  Mabel  frowns  my  heart  is  bowed  ; 
But  be  she  dark  or  sunny  browed 

She  reigns  my  bosom's  queen  ; 
And  well  she  knows  who  rules  in  state, 
That  joy  and  pain  must  alternate  ; 
And  so  fair  Mabel  hides  my  fate, 

A  smile  and  frown  between. 

Samuel  Mint  urn  Peck. 


WHEN  Ruby  sings  the  songs 
of  praise, 

I  quite  forget  my  worldly  ways, 
And  only  list  angelic  lays, 

Her  voice  soars  high  and  higher  ; 

It  seems  that  e'en  the  minister 

In  glances  gives  his  love  to  her, 

Nor  text  to  him  doth  e're  recur, 

When  Ruby's  in  the  choir. 

Her  prayerful  pleadings  seem  to  rise, 
Appealing  both  to  weak  and  wise, 
Until  they  reached  the  vaulted  skies 

And  join  with  angel  lyre  ; 
And  yet  I  fear  the  songs  that  roll 
In  tuneful  rhyme  to  Heaven's  goal 
Beseech  the  heart  instead  of  soul — 

When  Ruby's  in  the  choir. 

Roy  Farrcll  Greene. 
123 


AT  THE  OPERA 

THE  Opera  Season  cannot  fail 
To  capture  rich  society, 
For  those  who  are  not  musical 

At  least  love  notoriety  ; 
And  box-holders  are  put  on  show 
Each  night  with  grave  formality 
(The  programmes  name  them  in  a  row, 
Explaining  their  locality). 

They  all  belong  to  the  Elite, 

Their  blood  is  blue — supposedly  ; 
Though  some  have  known  the  smell  of  meat, 

And  some  sold  socks  composedly. 
Their  daughters  make  a  rare  display — 

The  mothers  in  complicity — 
With  costumes  cut  decollete, 

Regardless  of  publicity. 


The  intermission  curtain  drops — 

A  thousand  glasses  glare  at  them  ; 
While  half  as  many  naughty  fops 

Their  printed  names  compare  with  them. 
The  "  gallery  god  "  looks  smiling  down, 

Informing  all  the  neighbors  that  : 
"  The  fat  girl  in  the  ermine  gown 

Is  Miss  De  Vere  Von  Taborstadt. 

"  That  bald-head,  seated  by  the  rail, 

Who  parts  his  hair  so  tastily, 
Once  languished  in  the  county  jail 

For  getting  rich  too  hastily. 
The  red-haired  girl  in  salmon  pink — 

Her  maiden  name  was  Ogleman — 
Has  been  divorced  three  times,  I  think, 

And  now  has  hooked  a  nobleman." 

So  while  the  tongue  of  scandal  wags, 

The  exhibition  flourishes  ; 
And,  as  the  gossip  never  flags, 

The  interest  never  perishes. 
They  cannot  miss  this  scrutiny, 

But  we  will  grant,  in  charity, 
There  is  one  thing  they  fail  to  see — 

Their  manifest  vulgarity. 


HER  SOFA 

'HPWAS  built  for  some  great -grandmamma 
1       Whose  memory  is  but  dim, 

A  Pilgrim  dame  of  tastes  inclined 
To  be  precise  and  prim. 
126 


And  as  he  wrought  the  joiner  droned 
Slow  psalm-tunes  till  it  grew 

Beneath  his  pious  hands  to  bear 
The  likeness  of  a  pew. 


Severe  ol  angle,  high  of  back, 

Decorous  in  design  ; 
Its  spacious  stretch  was  meant  to  hold 

A  row  of  eight  or  nine — 
Shy,  simple  maids  and  homespun  swains, 

Like  doves  upon  the  thatch, 
Who  met  on  winter  nights  to  sing 

A  sober  glee  or  catch. 


Or  busy  gossips  stiffly  ranged, 

Who  set  the  stocking-heel 
With  flashing  needles  as  they  watched 

Askance  a  youthful  reel  ; 
And  shook  their  knowing  heads  to  see 

Such  tripping  to  and  fro, 
Opining  that  the  times  must  change, 

The  staid  old  customs  go. 


'Tis  so,  good  gossips.     Times  do  change- 
To-day  the  sofa  wears 

A  coquetry  of  gay  brocade 
And  little  modish  airs  ; 


While  heaps  of  cushions,  silken,  soft, 

Of  every  dainty  hue, 
Now  leave  upon  that  ample  seat 

Just  room  enough  for  two  ! 


M.  E.  W. 


128 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   CUPID 

HE  came  in  busy  hours — 
My  holidays  are  few — 
He  brought  the  scent  of  flowers, 
And  whispered,  dear,  of  you. 

I  vowed  that  I  would  flay  him, 
And  scourge  him  out  of  sight  ; 

Nay  more,  I  vowed  to  slay  him, 
The  mischief-making  sprite. 

I  gave  him  caustic  chiding, 
Let  fly  a  poisoned  dart, 

Presto  !  the  lad  was  hiding 
Safely  within  my  heart  ! 

There  all  day  long  he  chatters 
Of  someone's  charm  and  grace  ; 

Till  nothing  really  matters, 
Except  to  see  your  face. 

I  would  I  had  not  chidden, 
Nor  tried  the  sprite  to  kill  ; 

For  in  my  heart  safe  hidden 
He  works  his  wayward  will. 

Geraldine  Meyrick. 


129 


THE  WRATH    OF 
CUPID 

WHEN  Venus  roamed  Olym- 
pia's  height, 

In  radiant  heavenly  beauty, 
And  sought  to  set  all  ill  things 

right 

By  arts  of  love  and  duty, 
She  found  her  Cupid  weeping 

sore, 

His  bow  and  arrows  broken, 
And  thus  did  he  his  griefs 

deplore, 
And  legends  told  in  token  : 

"  I  sought  to  win  a  blonded  maid — 

She  fled,  and  went  to  voting  ; 
A  ballot  on  my  bow  she  laid, 

Her  virgin  scorn  denoting. 
I  begged  her  kisses — she  cried  '  Nay/ 

And  said  I  was  a  bear  if 
I  joined  not  in  the  License  fray, 

And  fought  not  'gainst  the  Tariff. 

"  Again  I  found  a  lovely  lass, 

She  was  a  platform  preacher ; 
A  gentler  creed  I  dreamed,  alas  ! 

That  I  could  eftsoons  teach  her. 
She  gave  me  Spencer,  Huxley,  Strauss, 
I  found  no  way  to  fault  her, 
130 


With  texts  she  did  my  transports  douse, 

My  bow  broke  on  her  altar. 
"  When  next  I  sieged  a  maiden's 

heart, 

And  wooed  her    toward   com- 
pliance, 
She  nipped   the   point   from  off 

my  dart, 

Because  she'd  studied  science. 
And  when  I  sang  an  am'rous  lay 

Of  Venus  and  Apollo, 
She  turned  on  me  a  Roentgen  ray 
And  said  my  brain  was  hollow . 

"  At  last  I  met  a  cycling  girlr 

In  bloomers  she  was  riding — 
The  chemic  art  made  gold  each  curl  ; 

Her  native  beauty  hiding. 
She  had  no  use  for  ardent  ways, 

She  pitied  not  my  torture, 
But  said  she  might  Love's  ante  raise 

If  I'd  become  a  scorcher." 

Then  Venus  fair  embraced  the  lad, 

And  bade  him  calm  his  sorrow, 
Nor  worry  o'er  each  earth-maid's  fad, 

But  hope  success  to-morrow. 
"  Dear  child,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not  cry. 

These  fads  thy  work  ne'er  covers  ; 
For  bloomers  never  reach  too  high 

To  hide  the  hearts  of  lovers." 


131 


LOVES   SACRIFICE 

HEAP  high  the  coals  until  the  fire 
Upleaps  with  lambent  light, 
For  love  upon  the  blazing  pyre 

Will  sacrifice  to-night. 
He'll  offer  first  the  rose  she  pressed, 

Then  feed  the  flame's  red  core 
With  snowy  lace,  that  on  her  breast 

She  once  so  sweetly  wore. 
A  knot  of  ribbons  will  he  toss, 

And  watch  their  swift  eclipse  ; 
A  moucboir  soft  as  silken  floss, 

That  must  have  touched  her  lips. 
The  fans  and  favors  from  the  wall, 

And  note  on  tender  note, 
Each  one  of  which  he  used  to  call 

"  Griefs  blissful  antidote." 
And  last  he'll  fling  some  fluffy  strands 

Of  amber  hair,  that  he 
Once  cherished  with  caressing  hands, 

And  thoughts  of  sanctity. 
Why,  do  you  ask,  this  direful  hap  ? 

Forsooth,  she  married  Gold, 
And  Love,  poor  little,  luckless  chap, 

Is  left  out  in  the  cold  ! 
132 


THE   BLIND   BEGGAR 


"T)-L-E-A-S-E  h-e-l-p  a  p-o-o-r  b-1-i-n-d  m-a-n," 


Said  a  wheedling  voice  in  my  ear. 
I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

(To  charity  inclined), 
My  dole  his  pocket  over  ran  ! 
And  now,  God  wot, 
I  him  sore  wounded.     I  forgot 
That  Cupid's  blind. 

M.  E.  M.  Davis. 

133 


"JL 


•4' 


CUPID  S   EASTER   COMPOSITION 

KING  CUPID  sang  his  song  of  love 
While  circling  through  the  sky  above  ; 
And,  calling  to  the  cherub  throngs, 
Which  force  unto  his  staff  belongs, 
He  cried,  "  Bring  forth  the  funds  of  joy 
And  all  the  fixings  we  employ 
To  conjure  up  a  new  delight, 
And  let  us  work  with  all  our  might. 

Now,  boil  the  pot  with  passion's  fire, 
And  add  a  little  heart's  desire. 
But,  lest  the  heat  should  grow  intense, 
We'll  temper  well  with  common  sense. 
Add,  now,  the  freshness  of  the  Spring, 
Then,  blushes  from  the  pink  rose  bring. 
Drop  in  a  thorn  of  jealous  pride, 
A  sprig  of  folly,  too,  beside. 

A  little  wealth  there'll  have  to  be, 
For  love  oft  lights  on  Fortune's  tree. 
Throw  in  the  points  of  many  darts, 
For  we  shall  wound  some  score  of  hearts." 


135 


LOVE   ON  THE   LINKS 

1SEE  her  face  in  the  distance, 
From  under  her  jaunty  cap  ; 
They're  over  the  run  ! — they've  nearly  won  !— 
My  love,  and  the  other  chap. 

They  sit  on  a  stile  together, 

And  wait  ;  it  is  still  our  "  lie;  " 
I  flourish  my  club,  and  the  skin  I  rub 
From  over  the  caddy's  eye. 

Confound  that  chap  who's  with  her — he  will  utter 
The  words  I've  had  as  yet  no  chance  to  speak  ; 

The  devil  take  the  driver  and  the  putter  ! 
The  lofter  and  the  mashy  and  the  cleek  ! 

At  last,  on  the  green,  we  join  them, 

But  what  does  he  whisper  so  low  ? 
I  very  much  doubt  if  it's  "  you  hole  out," 
Or  as  to  the  score,  you  know  ! 

Foursomes  are  gruesome,  I'm  thinking, 
You've  pain  from  the  time  you  start, 
When  a  winsome  maid,  in  a  gay  Scotch  plaid 
Tees  off,  and  the  ball  's  your  heart  ! 

You've  lost  the  game — you  fear  you've  lost  the  lassie 
Because  of  t'other  fellow,  and  his  cheek  ; 

You  mutter  low — "  the  devil  take  the  brassey  ! 
The  lofter  and  the  driver  and  the  cleek  !  " 

G.  M  Winter. 


136 


A  USURPER 

YOUNG  Love  with  sorry  draggled  wings, 
His  eyes  bedimmed,  his  bow  unstrung, 
Moped  in  a  corner,  sad  and  still, 

With  listless  hands  and  idle  tongue. 
1  What,  ho!     My  whilom,  saucy  lad  ! 

No  arrows  for  the  heedless  crowd  ? 
No  flying  darts  with  reckless  aim 

For  stupid  men  and  maidens  proud  ?  " 
The  youngster  shook  his  curly  head. 

"  My  span  of  life  is  well  nigh  run, 
I've  done  for  millions  in  my  time, 

And,  oh  !     It  has  been  lots  of  fun. 
But  now  my  bow  has  lost  its  power, 

My  arrows  glance  and  turn  aside. 
Tailor-made  girls  are  flint  and  steel, 

My  days  are  spoiled,  my  rules  defied 
I've  got  a  younger  brother,  too, 

Who's  taking  in  my  ancient  trade  ; 
He  used  to  run  down  all  my  game 

And  help  me  on  in  many  a  raid, 
His  victims  all  with  promptness  bring 

For  me  to  lay  upon  the  shelf — 
But  now  he  sets  them  free  as  air, 

Won't  even  keep  them  for  himself. 
Flirtation  is  this  fellow's  name, 

He's  called  an  entertaining  lad  ; 
But  he  has  killed  Love's  ancient  power, 

His  ways  are  wrong,  his  heart  is  bad." 
The  boy's  voice  low  and  fainter  grew, 

And  heavy  hung  his  curly  head. 
Ah !  Love  hath  passed  away  from  earth, 

Flirtation  reigneth  in  his  stead. 
137 


THE   SPINNING   WHEEL     „ 
(NEW  AND  OLD) 

FICKLE  custom  !     Nothing  stays  ! 
There  is  no  controlling 
Fate  or  Fortune  in  these  days, 

Now  the  wheel  is  rolling. 
Here's  Priscilla  in  a  gown 

Nothing  less  than  shocking — 
Short  ? — It  hardly  reaches  down 

To  Priscilla's  stocking  ! 
Years  ago  when  at  the  wheel 

Sat  Priscilla  spinning, 
Exercising  toe  and  heel, 

And  the  homespun  winning — 
That  was  different  from  this 

Spinning  home,  and  saying  : 
"  Miles  are  good  for  any  miss  " — 
With  the  proverb  playing. 
138 


Yet  for  all  it  seems  that  she 

Girlish  ways  would  banish, 
Knickerbockered  to  the  knee 

In  a  manner  mannish — 
Give  me  Her  !     I  little  care 

So  we  go  out  "  biking  ;  " 
What  she  chooses  she  may  wear; 

It  quite  suits  my  liking  ! 


Felix  Carmen. 


AN  ASTRAL  ROMANCE 

HE  was  a  bold  Theosophist 
Who  dwelt  in  far  Calcutta. 
To  see  his  astral  shape  none  wis 
He  dealt  in  eggs  and  butter. 

She  was  a  lovely  Boston  maid, 
A  maid  of  haughty  manner, 

Who  gazed  askance  on  men  of  trade, 
And  talked  well  of  Nirvana. 

One  day  their  astral  bodies  met 
Somewhere  by  the  Sahara. 

Said  she,  "  He  is  the  noblest  yet  !  " 
Said  he,  "  No  maid  is  lairer  !  " 

Then  for  a  week  or  more  these  two, 

In  soulfulness  disporting, 
Spent  many  a  moment  in  the  blue 

Of  ether  coyly  courting. 

And  later  by  the  Pyramids 

Their  astral  selves  were  wedded 

Down  where  the  Sphynx  up  to  its  lids 
In  hot  sand  lay  embedded. 


He  never  knew  this  Boston  maid 
Was  quite  a  snob  in  manner, 

And  looked  askance  on  men  of  trade 
When  outside  of  Nirvana. 

She  never  knew  the  soul  she'd  wed, 

That  dwelt  in  far  Calcutta, 
Had  always  earned  his  daily  bread 

By  selling  eggs  and  butter ; 

And  as  their  souls  seemed  always  glad 
While  they  twain  were  communing, 

I  never  told  them — 'twere  too  bad 
To  spoil  such  blissful  spooning. 

Gustav  K.  Drake. 


141 


THE    FALL    OF  J.  W.  BEANE 

A    GHOST    STORY 

IN  all  the  Eastern  hemisphere 
You  wouldn't  find  a  knight,  a  peer, 
A  viscount,  earl  or  baronet, 
A  marquis  or  a  duke,  nor  yet 
A  prince,  or  emperor,  or  king, 
Or  sultan,  czar,  or  anything 
That  could  in  family  pride  surpass 
J.  Winthrop  Beane,  of  Boston,  Mass. 
142 


His  family  tree  could  far  outscale 

The  bean-stalk  in  the  fairy  tale  ; 

And  Joseph's  coat  would  pale  before 

The  blazon'd  coat-of-arms  he  bore, 

The  arms  of  his  old  ancestor, 

One  Godfrey  Beane,  "  who  crossed,  you  know, 

About  two  hundred  years  ago." 

He  had  it  stamped,  engraved,  embossed, 

Without  the  least  regard  to  cost, 

Upon  his  house,  upon  his  gate, 

Upon  his  table-cloth,  his  plate, 

Upon  his  knocker,  and  his  mat, 

Upon  his  watch,  inside  his  hat  ; 

On  scarf-pin,  handkerchief  and  screen, 

And  cards  ;  in  short,  J.  Winthrop  Beane 

Contrived  to  have  old  Godfrey's  crest 

On  everything  that  he  possessed. 

And  lastly,  when  he  died,  his  will 

Proved  to  contain  a  codicil 

Directing  that  a  sum  be  spent 

To  carve  it  on  his  monument. 

But  it  you  think  this  ends  the  scene 
You  little  know  J.  Winthrop  Beane. 
To  judge  him  by  the  common  host 
Is  reckoning  without  his  ghost. 
And  it  is  something  that  befell 
His  ghost  I  chiefly  have  to  tell. 

At  midnight  of  the  very  day 
They  laid  J.  Winthrop  Beane  away, 
No  sooner  had  the  clock  come  round 
To  12  P.  M.  than  from  the  ground 
Arose  a  spectre,  lank  and  lean, 
With  frigid  air  and  haughty  mien, 
143 


No  other  than  J.  Winthrop  Beane, 

Unchanged  in  all,  except  his  pride — 

If  anything,  intensified. 

He  looked  about  him  with  that  air 

Of  supercilious  despair 

That  very  stuck-up  people  wear 

At  some  society  affair 

When  no  one  in  their  set  is  there. 

Then,  after  brushing  from  his  sleeves 

Some  bits  of  mold  and  clinging  leaves, 

And  lightly  dusting  off  his  shoe, 

The  iron  gate  he  floated  through, 

Just  looking  back  the  clock  to  note, 

As  one  who  fears  to  miss  a  boat. 

Ten  minutes  later  foinid  him  on 
The  ghost's  Cunarder-  -Oregon  ; 
And  ten  days  later  by  spook  time 
He  heard  the  hour  of  midnight  chime 
From  out  the  tower  of  Beanley  Hall, 
And  stood  within  the  graveyard  wall 
Beside  a  stone,  moss-grown  and  green, 
On. which  these  simple  words  were  seen  ; 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
SIR  GODFREY  BEANE. 

The  while  he  gazed  in  thought  serene 
A  little  ghost  of  humble  mien, 
Unkempt  and  crooked,  bent  and  spare, 
Accosted  him  with  cringing  air  : 

'  Most  noble  sir,  'tis  plain  to  see 
You  are  not  of  the  likes  of  me  ; 
You  are  a  spook  of  high  degree." 

'  My  good  man,"  cried  J.  Winthrop  B., 
'44 


"  Leave  me  a  little  while,  1  pray, 
I've  traveled  very  far  to-day, 
And  I  desire  to  be  alone 
With  him  who  sleeps  beneath  this  stone, 
I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  seen 
My  ancestor,  Sir  Godfrey  Beane." 

"  Your  ancestor !     How  can  that  be  ?  " 
Exclaimed  the  little  ghost,  "  when  he, 
Last  of  his  line,  was  drowned  at  sea 
Two  hundred  years  ago  ;  this  stone 
Is  to  his  memory  alone. 
I,  and  I  only,  saw  his  end. 
As  he  my  master  and  my  friend, 
Leaned  o'er  the  vessel's  side  one  night 
I  pushed  him — no;  it  was  not  right, 
I  own  that  I  was  much  to  blame  ; 
I  donned  his  clothes,  and  took  the  name 
Of  Beane — I  also  took  his  gold, 
About  five  thousand  pounds  all  told  ; 
And  so  to  Boston,  Mass.,.  I  came 
To  found  a  family  and  name — 
I,  who  in  former  times  had  been 
Sir  Godfrey's—" 

"  Wretch,  what  do  you  mean? 
Sir  Godfrey's  what  ?  "  gasped  Winthrop 
Beane. 

"  Sir  Godfrey's  valet  !  " 

That  same  night 

When  the  ghost  steamer  sailed,  you  might. 
Among  the  passengers  have  seen 
A  ghost  of  very  abject  mien, 
Faded  and  shrunk,  forlorn  and  frayed, 
The  shadow  of  his  former  shade, 
145 


Who  registered  in  steerage  class, 
J.  W.  Beane,  of  Boston,  Mass. 

Now,  gentle  reader,  do  not  try 
To  guess  the  family  which  I 
Disguise  as  Beane — enough  that  they 
Exist  on  Beacon  Hill  to-day, 
In  sweet  enjoyment  of  their  claims — 
It  is  not  well  to  mention  names. 

Oliver  Her  ford. 


146 


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